


We've got the world looking in our window

by ally_mcgee



Category: Realm of the Elderlings - Robin Hobb
Genre: All teenagers are idiots, Alternate Universe - High School, Except Justin, F/M, Gen, I'm so happy, M/M, Warnings to be added, afab genderfluid Amber, all the worst tropes, also chivalry is dead, disaster coterie, hands has no tag, no tags for you either, teen drama, thats what you get for having such a dumb name, warning for regal farseer just existing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ally_mcgee/pseuds/ally_mcgee
Summary: or, The Shitty Highschool AUThis fic is just free flow drabbling to keep the creative juices flowing, to be updated whenever I have something halfway decent to publish. I have no idea where it's going to go, plot, ships, warnings, everything is subject to change according to suggestions from friends and readers, so please see added tags etc for each chapter.song credits in notes"This fandom needs a HS AU!" - Andy
Relationships: FitzChivalry Farseer/Amber, Regal Farseer/Will
Comments: 11
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

_If you're never sorry_

_Then you can't be forgiven_

_If you're not forgiven_

_Then you can't be forgotten_

_If you're not forgotten_

_Then you can live forever_

_If you live forever_

_Then you'll begin to dream_

Regal Mountwell-Farseer wakes up to the worst day of his entire life, he just doesn't know it yet. To be honest, he should have seen it coming, the whole week since his brother's death has been morose and strained in the house, how else could it possibly have ended than in this absolute disaster of a Sunday.

Later he will come to spend hours pondering on a suitable name for future historians to use when writing about this fateful day. The Most Epically Unfair Piece of Shit Sunday has a nice ring to it. Maybe U2 will write a song about it.

Right now he's only trying to figure out if he wants to go back to sleep or get up and take a bath. He has an odd feeling that he's forgotten something important. He has a moment of blind panic when he remembers Dad saying his bathroom would need re-caulking soon and he would have to use another one for a few days. Was that starting today? No, it's Sunday. Crisis averted. He sinks back into the mountain of pillows and drags his phone to him by the charger cord.

Whatever it was probably wasn't that important anyway.

*

The house is massive. Four floors to the main building, and three to each sprawling wing, two other, smaller buildings that Fitz can see and who knows how many more on the other side. Wings. He's going to live in a house that has wings. Maybe even a Main Hall and a huge marble staircase. 

Fitz has never seen a house this big. The library back home was maybe a third of the main building. Home. This is his home now. His father's house.

"Sir?" Fitz jumps. A man in an immaculate butler's uniform has materialized by Uncle Verity's shoulder. Verity doesn't seem phased, he just nods a greeting. 

"The family is enjoying their brunch in the courtyard. If Young Master…." 

"FitzChivalry", Verity says.

"FitzChivalry", the man agrees smoothly, his expression perfectly neutral, "if Young Master FitzChivalry isn't too weary from the journey, might I add two seats to the table?"

FitzChivalry. His father's name. No one's ever called him that before.

There's a long moment of silence. Belatedly Fitz realizes both his uncle and the butler are staring at him. Somewhere in that last sentence was a question he should have answered.

"Uhh", he says, feeling stupid. 

"Are you hungry, Fitz?" His uncle's tone is warm. "There's breakfast."

Fitz nods and watches passively as Verity takes his bag from his tired grip and hands it to the butler.

"Thank you, Sevrens. We'll be having brunch in the courtyard."

"Very well, sir."

Sevrens turns around on his shiny patent heels in a twirl worthy of a soldier on parade and marches back towards the house, carrying Fitz's old gym bag at arm's length in front of him.

"I'm sorry. I'm… not used to this kind of…. This."

"No worries, boy. It does get a little tedious sometimes but all in all, we're just a normal family." He pats Fitz on the shoulder.

"We're your family."

His family. There's a strange heaviness inside his chest. His father's family. His dead father's family. His father, who he never even met.

"My father is dead", he says. The first time he's said it out loud.

"He was my best friend", Uncle Verity says, his voice low and gaze falling to his feet. When he looks back up at Fitz's face his eyes are glistening with tears. "He was my brother and my best friend and he would have wanted you to be happy so I promise to try my best."

For one horrible moment Fitz thinks he's going to cry too, not because of a father he never knew but because his uncle is sad.

"I'm sorry", Uncle Verity wipes his eyes. "You look so much like him. It's like he's… like he wasn't…" He draws a deep breath. "We should go eat."

They take a side door in the east wing, pass through a series of corridors with paintings of serious-looking people on the walls and expensive looking leather chairs and tiny tables occupying the corners before exiting through another door.

The courtyard turns out to be more like a private park, complete with white-stoned pathways, a lovely stone fountain, elaborately cut hedges, and some apple trees and beautiful old oaks providing shelter from the sun. Fitz can see sun chairs, a gazebo and a shadier patch with higher grass, a slightly rickety-looking grapevine trellis and wild, gnarly bushes. What he thought was the end wall of the western wing turns out to have been just a corner, the mansion surrounds the courtyard in the shape of a large L. The other end of the park is hidden behind silver-barked willow trees.

It's uncharacteristically warm for early September and here, safe behind the huge building, it feels like a balmy summer afternoon.

There's a glazed patio the size of an industrial greenhouse with a raised deck attached, and this is where Verity leads him. He can see a feast of a breakfast set out on a table set under a large white umbrella. That much food and only two people sitting at the table.

His Grandfather is not eating. He has a cup of espresso by his right hand and a newspaper spread out over his plate and cutlery. 

"Father", Verity says softly, "FitzChivalry is here."

The old man's fingers tighten on the edges of the newspaper, but when he turns to nod a greeting, his face is almost expressionless.The same mask he wore on the night exactly seven days ago when he came with Verity to Fitz's mom's house to give the news.

"Hello. Grandfather." The word feels clumsy and large in his mouth. Shrewd Farseer seems to like it though. He almost smiles.

A curly-haired boy about the same age as Fitz is sitting opposite him, leaning back in his chair, face turned towards the sun, with his bare feet up on the table. His skin is lighter than Grandfather Shrewd's and Uncle Verity's but he's unmistakably related. He has a pair of ridiculous black and gold sunglasses on and he's wearing what appears to be a pair of black boxer shorts, a white t-shirt and for some unfathomable reason, an oversized pink fur coat with something written on it in big black letters. He has large gold headphones over his ears and only notices their arrival when Verity steps in front of his sunlight. Visibly annoyed, the boy pushes his headphones off and lets them fall around his neck. He glares at Verity over the rim of his sunglasses. Then he spots Fitz. 

For a moment he just stares, then turns back to Verity. "What the hell is that?" 

"Regal, be nice. This is Fitz. Chivalry's son."

Regal's mouth actually falls open. The effect is rather comical because he was in the middle of chewing on a slice of cantaloupe and because the only sound is the music coming from his headphones, the wistful voice of a woman repeating the word 'death'. 

A soft gust of wind rustles the pages of Grandfather Shrewd's newspaper.

"Hi", Fitz says.

"Verity, please tell me you're joking." Regal pulls off his sunglasses, throws them on the table and rubs his eyes as if he has suddenly developed a splitting headache. 

"I told you he was arriving today."

"Well, now we've seen him, you can take him back."

"He's going to be living here from now on." Verity's voice is calm, but a muscle on his cheek keeps twitching, visible even under his beard.

"Doesn't he have other family members to go mooch off?"

He's still only addressing Verity. It's getting ever so slightly annoying.

"I can speak, you know ", Fitz feels forced to point out.

"Good for you. Now shut up."

"Regal." Grandfather Shrewd doesn't have to raise his voice to get heard, "that's enough."

He takes a sip of his coffee and straightens his newspaper. There's a distinct sense of finality to the movement. 

"Whatever", Regal huffs. He turns back to the sun and closes his eyes.

"Well", Uncle Verity claps his hands together, "let's eat. Take a seat, Fitz. What would you like to drink? Espresso, cappuccino, latte?"

"Uhh."

A derisive snort from Regal. Fitz ignores him.

"Tea, please."

"Would you prefer green, black, white, oolong or rooibos, sir?" Another impeccably dressed jump-scare servant is looking at him with a polite smile. 

"Black. Please. Thank you."

"Very well, sir. And for you Master Verity?"

"The same, please, Jason. And some scrambled eggs and bacon."

Fitz gives his uncle a grateful smile. Everything is starting to feel a bit too much. He slumps down into a cushioned rattan armchair, takes a deep breath and lets it out very slowly.

The food is delicious. The supermarket back home didn't have as many kinds of fresh fruit as this breakfast table. The tea is bitter and strong, Fitz copies Uncle Verity and adds a paper thin slice of lemon in his cup and manages to burn his tongue. 

There's seven different types of cheese and fresh, warm bread under a pristine white towel. The sweet orange melon is the most delicious thing Fitz has ever tasted in his life.

"This is really good", he says. "Everything here is just… " he shakes his head. "Wow."

Uncle Verity chuckles into his tea. "I guess it is. I've gotten so used to it I don't really notice it anymore."

"Well, it's really impressive. Are those other buildings yours too?" 

"Red building over there is the smaller guest house, with the pool behind it."

Verity points at the willows.

"You have a _pool_?"

"Oh my god," Regal laughs, apparently his insulting people -timer ran out, "have you ever been inside a human dwelling before?"

"Regal, please."

"Sorry, I was just curious", Regal says, not sounding even remotely apologetic. He turns back to Fitz. "So, did you grow up in, like, a barn or something?"

"Stop being mean." Verity sounds very tired now. 

"I am dealing with my grief", Regal says haughtily and throws a grape at Verity, "my _brother_ just died, and you're turning my home into a homeless shelter."

It's so ridiculous Fitz actually bursts out laughing.

"What", Regal starts, eyes narrowing, "pray tell, is so funny?"

Where to even start? "Well, I'm not homeless for one."

"Oh, so you don't actually have an excuse for looking like that?"

Fitz shakes his head in disbelief, "I guess I don't. Do you?"

"This is Balenciaga you uncultured fuck."

Fitz is saved from answering by Regal's phone ringing.

"Try to ignore him", Uncle Verity says in a low voice. "That's what I do."

He winks at Fitz. 

"Mom?" Regal yells into his phone and turns an accusing stare at the top floor windows of the east wing, "Why are you calling me from inside the- " he rolls his eyes, "you know what, I don't care. Talk to dad." He leans across the table to shake the phone at Grandfather Shrewd's face. "Mom has a headache."

Shrewd lets the newspaper fall onto his lap and moves to take the offered phone but Regal snatches it away.

"No wait, I just realized I need this. Anyway call her."

Shrewd sighs, folds his paper and gets up.

"Good to have you here, FitzChivalry", he says before heading towards the glazed patio. One of the large glass panels slides aside to let him through.

"Yeah, this has been sufficiently bullshit." Regal gets up and follows his father inside, the ridiculous coat on his shoulders like a fluffy cape.

"Would it kill you to act like a decent human being sometimes?" Verity yells after him. That's a little shocking. His uncle seems so calm, Fitz didn't think him capable of raising his voice. The only answer he gets from Regal is a middle finger over his shoulder.

Verity pokes at a slice of tomato on his plate with his fork.

"It's been a difficult week. We're all jumping down each others' throats", he starts, then gives a bitter laugh. "Not that it excuses anything. I've just repeated the same things to so many people it comes automatically. But truth be told, this family has always been a mess. Chivalry's…" he rubs his bearded chin, "you know, it just, brought it all to surface." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry Fitz. I shouldn't pour this all on you. It must be so much harder for you."

"It's ok", Fitz says. "Really, it is. I mean… I didn't know him. I never even met him. I didn't… I didn't lose anyone." 

He forces himself to look the man in the eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss, Uncle Verity."

A lone tear rolls down Verity's cheek into his beard, but he's smiling. 

"You're so much like him." He wipes his eyes, then leans forward to pull the massive bowl of goat cheese and pomegranate salad closer.

"What do you say, we stay out here and finish this? Let them get all the fighting done among themselves."

Fitz isn't sure what he means but staying out is definitely preferable to having to deal with Regal for one second longer. He grins and holds out his plate.

He learns a great deal about his uncle during the slow brunch. Verity has just been hastily promoted to chief strategy officer in the family company to keep the shareholders calm after what happened to Chivalry. Fitz gets the feeling Verity would prefer to do something else, whenever he mentions shareholders and stock prices his voice seems to lose all color. Like he's reciting things that mean nothing to him.

"I used to just manage a side branch, and that was mostly HR. I was ok at that. Chiv was always the visionary. Father was all prepared to step aside and let him take the chair but now… Now he's stuck with me. And Regal is…"

He worries the corner of his lip with his teeth, deep in thought. He looks oddly young. 

"It would have been different if I had gotten this job after Chiv took the helm. I would have followed him anywhere. And I did. We even went to the same college, Brown. He got a scholarship, I had to work my butt off but I managed." A quiet laugh, "It must have been so annoying, to have his little brother constantly at his heels."

He turns in his chair and points to an old, sprawling oak standing alone on the other side of the fountain.

"Chiv loved climbing that tree when he was a kid. He used to climb to the very top and just hang there, upside down by his feet. I thought it was the most impressive thing. One day, I was maybe five years old, I decided to try. I just wanted him to think I was cool." He smiles that sad smile again. "I made it all the way up to that fork up there. And then I sat there, terrified, no idea how to get down."

The fork is a good 20 feet above the ground.

"I waited up there for maybe three hours. I didn't dare cry for help because I was afraid I would get in trouble. Mother had told us not to climb the tree, you see."

"How did you get down?"

"Your father came to get me. And then made me climb again so I wouldn't get scared of it. And taught me how to come down. We carved 'Chiv and Verity were here' on the bark up there. We often talked about climbing to see if it was still there."

"I'm sure it is."

"Maybe one night you'll wake up to the crash of me falling after a branch breaks under me."

"Maybe you should let me climb instead."

"Maybe I should," Verity laughs. He ruffles Fitz's hair. "Patience is going to tell you to braid this. That's how Chiv used to wear it. She doesn't mean anything bad by it. That's just how she is."

Patience. His father's wife. No one's really told him anything about her but everyone seems to assume that he knows her. He could ask Uncle Verity but he doesn't really want to. So he says nothing and feels like a coward.

Verity hasn't noticed anything is wrong. He launches into another story from his childhood, this one about Chivalry trying to teach their dog Leon to carry a basket of food from the main house to the pool house so that the brothers could get snacks when they were pretending to be two travelers hiding in a remote hut in the wilderness.

Fitz likes listening to him. His stories make the huge house feel like a home instead of the cold, almost hostile place he felt he walked into. They end up taking a walk around the courtyard. Verity shows Fitz the pool house and one particular white corner plank with multiple horizontal lines cut into it, each marked with either CF or VF. Looks like his father was always tall for his age. They stop by the old oak, stand side by side in front of a wonky wooden cross that marks the final resting place of old Leon, and next to it a smooth round stone with I LOVE YOU MOM still visible on it in faint white letters.

It's sad, but also peaceful. Fitz no longer feels like an intruder.

Unfortunately, the fighting is far from over by the time they go back inside. Sevrens is there to greet them at the patio door, informing them that Master Verity's presence is required in the southern sitting room.

'Fantastic", Verity cringes. "Can you tell me what it's about?"

"I believe there has been a misunderstanding regarding Young Master FitzChivalry's accommodation."

"Like hell there has", Verity says, then adds a tad apologetically: "Thank you, Sevrens. We'll go right away." 

He guides Fitz down another corridor and then up a wide staircase of dark wood. The walls here are cream paneled with intricately carved wood in between, and with tall wooden skirting boards. Fitz is convinced there must be a hidden door or twenty, maybe even passageways inside these walls, if you just know how to get them. Before he has a chance to ask Uncle Verity, he stops and pushes open a heavy door.

The room is dim. Grandfather Shrewd is sitting in a large black leather armchair by the heavily curtained window. Beside him, looking like she's melting into the divan she's lounging on, is pale black-haired woman in layers and layers of black satin. Regal is standing on the bottom step of yet another staircase right by the door. He still has the ridiculous coat on his shoulders and he's looking very sullen.

"Father", Verity nods then gives a tight smile to the woman. "Desire, good to see you up and involved in family matters."

Desire returns the icy smile. "Trust me, there are quite a few things I would rather be doing right now." 

She sits up slowly, grimacing as if in great pain. Her black hair coils in ringlets like Regal's and her pale blue eyes are the same shape as his. She looks like she used to be very beautiful and still could be if she didn't look so ill. Her pale skin looks ashen in the low light and she has smudged black make-up around her blood-shot eyes.

"As I said, do whatever you want", she tells Shrewd as she painstakingly leans closer to the small table between them and fills a fancy white and gold tea cup from a sweating glass pitcher of what looks like tomato juice. She is holding it with both of her hands, but still the spout of the pitcher clinks dangerously against the fine china and her cup is overflowing onto the saucer before she sets the pitcher down and rubs her hands together as if they pained her.

"I really do not have the energy for this right now. Put him in the pool house for all I care."

"I thought everything was settled", Uncle Verity says, all the lightness and life once again gone from his voice. "We'll give him the southeastern guest room." He turns to Fitz, "I think you'll like it, it has an en-suite bathroom, an outside door and direct access to the inside pool." 

There's another pool?

"You can't do that! I need that room! Mom!" Regal is slumped over the handrail, head against the polished wood, looking like he's dying or worse.

"Darling, please don't raise your voice, my head is killing me."

"This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, I hope you know that!"

"Can it happen just a little more quietly?"

"I hate you all! You just want to give him everything because he looks like Chiv and you think it's going to make you feel better. It's pathetic and it's not going to work. You'll still feel like shit and you're making my life shit in the process!" He stomps up the stairs, dragging the supposedly very expensive coat behind him.

"Well", Verity claps his hands together. "I guess that's settled then."

*

It seems like a lifetime later Uncle Verity closes the door of the southeastern guest room and Fitz is alone for the first time today. He was given a tour of the house and got officially introduced to the house staff. Everything was very grand and confusing. He tried to memorize as many of the staff members names as he could, his mom worked as a waitress and told him to never grow up to be a man who's disrespectful to waiters or servants.

His new room is every bit as fancy as it sounded like. It's in fact three rooms, bathroom and what looks like a walk-in closet. The closet is empty apart from three hangers and in them three identical sets of clothes. Right. That. He throws his old gym bag into a corner. It looks very small and sad.

He sits down on the needlessly high double bed and pulls his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans. 

It rings for a long time. She finally picks up when he's just about to give up.

"Hey you!" Her voice sounds breathless. "How's - Nettle, stop that!" 

Fitz smiles. Molly's daughter has just learned to walk and is using her newfound freedom of movement to stuff as many things into her mouth as she can without her mother catching her. 

"You want to say hi to Fitz?" Happy toddler screaming. "Hi, Nettle!" he says and feels the combination of happiness and loneliness burn his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, fights for air. Molly is back on the phone. "Sorry, what I meant to say was how are you doing?"

"I…" he bites his fist but the tears come anyway. "I miss you."

"Oh, sweetie. I miss you too."

"I don't understand anything about anything here", he sniffs. "Everything is just…"

"I know", she says, in the same voice she uses to calm Nettle when she's fallen and hurt herself. "It's going to be ok. It's only been a day."

"It feels like a year." He sounds like a child. He knows it but he's suddenly too tired to fake.

"Give yourself time", Molly's voice is very soothing. "It's just that everything is happening at the same time. Come Christmas you'll be bored, waiting for the holidays like every year before. You'll have new friends and plans with them…"

"I don't want new friends. I want you and Dirk and Kerry and swimming in the sea and…"

"You still have us! We're not going anywhere. The sea certainly isn't going anywhere."

"You'll forget me." His voice sounds whiny. Oh god, he thinks, please don't let me sound like Regal.

"Never. In fact, just this afternoon, Kerry tripped and fell into a tidepool and we all agreed he reminded us of you."

"Oh ha ha!"

"Even Smithy felt bad for him. He licked his ear."

"Smithy was there?"

"Yeah. Your mom asked me to walk him."

"Thank you. For everything."

"No problem."

They're both quiet for a moment. Fitz pulls at a loose thread sticking out of the side seam of a red decorative pillow. He thinks he can hear Molly's breathing. There's a lot of things he wants to say but doesn't want to have to say them out loud. He hates that he feels jealous that they've all gone out to the beach without him. He doesn't want to be jealous. Should his friends stop living just because he had to move? Should his dog not get out because he's not there to take him?

"I have to go. I have to unpack and take a shower before dinner," he groans. He is not looking forward to another family meal.

"What's wrong with dinner? I thought rich people all had chefs and only had to eat caviar and stuff."

"I'm not-", Fitz starts to argue but stops to consider. "Huh. I guess I really am rich now."

He bounces experimentally on the bed. "I'm rich. I have a bed so high I have to jump to get on it, my bedroom is three rooms, I live in a house with wings and servants and a hundred different types of tea!"

Molly giggles.

"See? You're actually doing ok. All you have to do is get through dinner. I mean, how bad can it be?"

*

"It's _sushi_. What is wrong with you?" Regal spreads his hands theatrically and leans back in his chair as if the absurdity of the situation is simply too much to handle. 

"Hello? Are you even hearing this?" His brother chooses to pretend to have gone momentarily deaf. Regal glares at him. 

"You just had to dig out the extra special one didn't you? I'm sure there were better ones to choose from."

"Regal." Shrewd doesn't raise his voice but his tone leaves no little for argument. Regal huffs and turns back to his plate.

Fitz contemplates the two smooth sticks of stainless steel he's been given for utensils. He can see Regal deftly maneuver his weird little rice lumps first for a dip in the soy sauce and then into his mouth without even taking his eyes off his phone. It looks easy but Fitz has no idea how to copy him. Well, waiting isn't going to make it any less awkward. He clears his throat.

"Can I have a fork?"

There's a thump and a clang when Regal's phone hits the table and nearly upsets his glass.

"No! You can fucking starve!"

It's the younger servant, Jason, who brings him a fork. Sushi turns out to be delicious but the meal itself is exactly as painful as he feared it would be. 

Regal's mother, Desire, Fitz's has no idea how to properly address her, he's never seen anyone who looks less like "Grandmother", is still a sick, moody presence at the other end of the table, poking at her food and mostly focusing on the wine.

Regal thankfully has decided to pretend Fitz doesn't exist, all the way down to crumpling up his napkin and throwing it onto Fitz's plate when he's done with it. It's still preferable to having to listen to him actually talk, so Fitz says nothing.

Verity seems like he's still lost in the past, he's absentmindedly polite but spends most of the meal staring at an empty seat in front of him.

And at the other end of the long table is his Grandfather in his high-backed chair, presiding over all of them. 

Fitz is incredibly relieved when the servants finally come in to clear the table. He can go to his room, and lock the door...

"FitzChivalry?" 

He stiffens. It's the first time Grandfather Shrewd has addressed him directly all day.

"Yes, Grandfather?"

"I hope you find everything here satisfactory. I want you to feel at home here. If you ever feel that your needs aren't met, I want you to come and tell me." He dabs the corners of his mouth with the napkin, then folds it neatly on his plate.

"You are my blood, my kin. Nothing is more important to me than my family. No one harms any of my own. We might not always see eye to eye but whatever it is, we take care of it as a family. We do not let outsiders see a divided front."

Regal has stopped eating. It's the first time Fitz has seen him look like he's actually listening to anyone talk. Grandfather Shrewd's words sound vague and a little ominous to Fitz but whatever Regal makes out of them seems to please him a great deal.

"Do you understand what I'm saying to you, FitzChivalry?"

Crap. "Yes. I understand." He doesn't. 

"Good." 

It feels like a dismissal. Fitz is proud of himself that he manages a calm, dignified walk out of the dining room when all he wants to do is run away.

*

Later, when he's lying in his ridiculously huge new bed he tries to make sense of Grandfather Shrewd's words but to no avail. Again he has that feeling that everyone expects him to know something he's never been told. He tries to sleep but it eludes him. He hasn't remembered to charge his phone and the only thing he can get out of the huge flat-screen TV is a request for a password so no funny dog videos to help him calm down. 

He is exhausted but his brain seems intent on replaying the entire day in a whirl of crazy detail after crazy detail. He tries to remember the way from this room to the kitchen. Go right, straight down the corridor, take a left… get lost, try to find a door out to the courtyard, enter the main building through the patio door, take a left… Thank goodness he has a bathroom. How long will it take him to find the front door tomorrow morning? Maybe he should set the alarm an hour earlier. He can't be late on his first day at the new school. The thought makes him shudder. More new people and more new things to remember.

He yawns and turns onto his back. The ceiling of the southeastern guest room, or, Fitz reminds himself, his new room, is painted. An intricate renaissance-style mural spans from wall to wall. The middle of it is only a fluffy purple souffle of clouds but each corner has people doing strange things, like four scenes from some very weird story. 

The one directly above his bed depicts a dark-skinned man, who actually looks a bit like Grandpa Shrewd if Fitz squints his eyes and turns his head a little, in an old-fashioned uniform shaking hands with a weird snail-ghost-person. Possible Ancestor Guy seems happy about the meeting even though his companion looks like a melting wax statue of an alien dressed in rave gear.

The whole thing is incredibly creepy. Fitz wonders if he's allowed to move his bed. 

He yawns again. He'll move the bed tomorrow.

  
  


*

"He's the dumbest person I have ever met. Looks exactly like Chiv apart from the whole Exceptionally realistic impression of someone who's brain just fell out of their mouth -thing. I guess he's made that face so much it got stuck like that. The problem is that everyone gets sad all over again when he's here looking like Chiv. I'm so fucking tired of it." 

A sudden rush of wind ruffles the leaves of the ancient oak just outside his window and blows Regal's hair into his eyes.

"And I had to give him the corner office. I left the stash where it was though, maybe someone'll find it and blame him. Maybe I should make Sevrens pretend to find it and take it to Dad."

"Mmhm."

"You're not even listening, are you? You're just fucking around on the computer."

"No."

"Don't lie to me I can hear the clicking." He leans against the windowsill and watches the vape smoke disappear in the cool night air.

"Do you want me to find shit on him?" 

He could, Regal knows that. There's two things Will knows way too much about, math and computers. He's lucky he's so cute otherwise he'd be too much of a geek for Regal to hang out with.

"Sure, why not. Maybe he's done something absolutely apeshit crazy and being a boring idiot is like witness protection or something. Maybe he's pretending to be dead."

Will chuckles. Regal takes a drag of the pen and lets his head fall back against the wood and closes his eyes. He could fall asleep here.

"Maybe we can find someone who wants him dead and invite them to finish the job", Will says, a tad absentmindedly. There's more clicking. "or maybe he'll prove to be useful somehow."

Regal snorts at that. 

"He won't."

"He might."

"Go fuck yourself with a malla-" that's not a word. Is it a word? "Mallard", he finishes.

"What?"

He sounds so confused. Serves him right. Regal giggles. Stupid Will.

Stupid Will sighs on the phone.

"Are you high?"

"Just a little."

"Don't fall out the window."

"I won't."

It's not even that far. Verde jumped out, managed to land in Mom's koi pond and only broke like half the bones in his leg. He won't shut up about the amount of titanium it took to put the ankle and the foot back together.

Regal considers his own bare feet propped up against the dark wood still holding the remnants of the sun's warmth. He likes his feet. He seriously doubts any amount of titanium could improve them in any way.

"It won't."

"What?"

"Improve anything. Titanium I mean."

He can _hear_ Will rolling his one good eye. The glass one doesn't move that well.

"Go to sleep."

"No."

He doesn't want to sleep, not yet. This is the best part. His brain is fuzzy enough that all trains of thought stop before coiling into their usual suspicious spirals, there's no hurry, no plots to uncover, no idiots to keep track of.

Nobody waiting around the corner for a chance to push him off the windowsill.

If he fell and died, how many people would go to jail for that. How many more would live the rest of their pathetic lives terrified of everything that he knew about them getting exposed. If he fell, they would all follow him down.

The wind in the oak leaves sounds like it's whispering words.

"Find shit on him." he tells Will.

"On it, sir."

_Oh, lucky you_

_There's nothing to lose_

_So if it's really true_

_Oh, lucky you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack:  
> World Looking In by Morcheeba  
> Pound of Flesh by Regina Spektor  
> Lucky You by The Lightning Seeds


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 grew too long so I had to cut it in two.  
> Fitz meets new people and gets increasingly confused about everything. Neither Regal nor Chade should ever be allowed anywhere near a microphone

_I foresaw you like an old ghost story_

_From a family tree that was handed down to me_

_I've known you like a siren song that warns_

_I have been informed_

_you could be the death of me_

  
  


The first thing Fitz does when he wakes up is fall out of his bed while reaching an inch too far to stop his alarm. The bed really is too high for a normal human, he thinks as he rubs his tailbone and finally manages to silence his phone before it, too, vibrates itself onto the floor.

He lets his head fall back against the side of the extra thick mattress. The back of his head bounces off the memory foam. Ancestor Guy in the ceiling pays him no heed but Fitz suspects his alien pal might secretly be laughing at him. It doesn't feel like a good omen for his first day of school.

Maybe taking a shower will make him feel a little better about facing the day.

The bathroom is easily the best thing about his new room. The rainfall shower in the ceiling alone makes up for the freaky giant bed and monster mural. And he has a bathtub. And an absolutely ridiculous amount of bottles that smell weird but very good. The labels are all in what is probably French but he guesses they’re soap. He has decided to only use one at a time. It would be a bit strange to smell like a million different things at once, he thinks as he pours something vaguely strawberry yogurt -smelling onto his head.

His old home only had one bathroom for all three of them to share, with a leaky shower head directly above the toilet seat and hot water for one hour at a time. Here, he can stay under the warm waterfall until his fingers and toes are all wrinkly and his face is pink and everything smells of yogurt.

Maybe after school he’ll have time to take a bath. He wishes Smithy was here. He would love the tub.

He wraps himself in a soft blue towel the size of a king bed sheet and steps out of the steamy bathroom. Time to tackle the first enemy of the day.

His new school uniform consists of pale cream creased slacks, a white, stiff shirt, a dark blue knitted vest, a deep maroon blazer and a striped tie, as well as shoes of shiny brown leather with silly little tassels on top. 

Why so many layers? Why is everything so rigid and official-looking? Why does every single garment have so many buttons?

In his old school everyone just wore jeans and hoodies. It was almost like a uniform, just a lot less of a hassle. He washes his hands one more time before even touching the shirt just to be sure not to get dirt on it. He’s never owned any white clothes before. 

How is he supposed to paint and pet dogs and run around with his friends if he’s wearing white?

You don’t have any friends, the nervous, pessimistic part of his mind points out. 

You don’t even know anyone at that school except Regal.

He gives up on the buttons on the cuffs of the shirt. No one’s gonna see them anyway, he’ll be wearing the jacket over it. No amount of pulling seems to make the front of the shirt completely smooth under the vest. He feels over-dressed and silly, and that’s without the navy, maroon and gold -striped tie. He sticks his tongue out at his reflection in the mirror. Over-dressed and silly. That’s being a Farseer.

A ping from his phone tells him it’s 7:40. Mom will be having her first break right about now and Fitz can finally call her without disturbing her at work or catching her at home where grandpa might overhear. Things were never exactly easy at home but before grandpa moved in with them Fitz and his mother were happy. Just the two of them and Smithy. His peaceful life ended when grandma died and grandpa moved into their little apartment, taking the smaller bedroom and forcing Fitz onto the couch. On his first night there grandpa had gotten drunk and Fitz had found out that he was a bastard, that his skin color was wrong, that his grandpa had kept all the money from his father’s family that his mother wouldn’t accept and that grandpa saw him as a disgrace and blamed him for ruining his daughter’s life. 

That night and every other night for two years since.

His thumb hovers over the number.

Funny how you never know to appreciate good things until they’re gone. Mom now worked as a cleaner in the city, heading out at 5am to clean office spaces before the workers came in. Grandpa made her quit waitressing because according to him, a job like that resulted in accidents like Fitz. 

"Keppet!" 

His throat feels tight. No one else calls him that.

"Hi, mom."

"I've missed you so much!"

"It's only been a day."

"I know, I know. I'm allowed to be embarrassing when no one else can hear, right?"

"It's not embarrassing", Fitz mumbles. He misses her too. He didn't even realize how much until he heard her voice. "How are you?"

"I saw Molly yesterday. And Nettle. She’s such a little terror, eats everything she can get her hands on. We caught her gnawing on Smithy’s ear. He loved it.”

Fitz is glad for them both. Molly’s dad is even worse than Fitz’s grandpa, and Nettle was not a happy surprise for either of the men. Molly kept saying Fitz wasn’t her father but what else was he supposed to do but to stand up and say he would take care of them? 

Molly had taken one look at him, standing there in the rain offering his pathetic life savings to her and her unborn child, and burst out crying. She cried so hard she ended up throwing up behind the park bench. Then she said the erratic timing of her morning sickness didn’t bode well for the kid’s punctuality. 

Now Nettle was walking and trying to eat his dog’s ear.

“I wish I’d seen that.”

A droplet of water falls from his wet hair into his eye. He wipes it off. “I miss you mom.”

“I miss you too.”

He swallows. 

"I just want things to be good for you. I can send you money. I'm going to get a job…" He sniffs and instantly regrets it. He's supposed to stay strong. For her.

"Please, sweetheart. Do not be sad. You are the only good thing in my life so please do not be sad!"

Her voice breaks, then disappears altogether. She must have covered the microphone with her hand. Fitz wipes his eyes again, on the stiff white cuff of this new shirt. He wants to ask her if he could maybe just come home. But he can't tell her he hates it here. She wants so badly for him to be happy. She’s never wanted anything more.

"And don't push yourself too hard. Focus on school for now. It's a really good school, make sure you don't waste this opportunity."

"It sounds more pretentious than good to me."

"Things can be both."

"Like my father?" It just slips out. He wants to stuff his foot in his mouth. His mother sighs.

"Yes. He was both of those things. And also clever, courteous and had a quirky sense of humour that I loved."

"You’ve never talked about him before."

A moment of silence. She's weighing her words.

"I guess it's different now. He's… I have no one else to share my memories with."

"Did you guys stay in touch?" He's never even considered that possibility before.

"Sporadically. I sent him pictures of you. I wish you could have met him."

He starts to say 'me too' but he's honestly not sure. What if his father was more like Regal than Verity? What if Chivalry Farseer would've been disappointed in him? 

"I know he liked climbing trees when he was a kid. And he had a dog."

"And he looked just like you."

"I know."

"But you're not him. I want you to realize that. You don't have to become something you're not. Not for anyone." She takes a shuddering breath. "You're my son and I love you."

"I love you too, Mom." He wipes his eyes again. The cuff is wet.

"I have to go. They gave me an extra spot for today, I need to squeeze it in before my last stop."

"Ok."

"It'll all be alright, Keppet. Just do your best and stay strong."

"I will. Bye mom."

"I love you."

Now he's got tears in his eyes so he can't even see the mirror. Not that it makes any difference because he doesn't know how to tie a tie anyway.

He didn't have a father to teach him.

He's never needed that skill until now.

He ties it into an ugly bow and laughs at his reflection.

When he gets to the second kitchen, the one where no one actually does any cooking judging from the pristine condition of the stove and the oven, the first thing he sees is Uncle Verity standing by the marble island counter. He has his phone in one hand, a pile of papers in the other and a piece of toast in his mouth. He looks about as neat and classy as Fitz feels, with his bare feet and untucked shirt, entirely out of place amidst all the dark wood and shiny metal.

“Morning.”

His uncle looks up, freezes for a split second, but recovers just as quick.

“Ah, Fitz!” he has to drop the papers onto the counter to have a hand free to take the toast from his mouth. A few sheets flutter onto the floor. “Look at you!” he gestures with his toast, “The uniform looks good!”

“Apart from this”, Fitz waves the tie at him. “Which do you think is less likely to get me in trouble, wearing it as a headband or as a garter?”

That makes Uncle Verity laugh. “Out of those two, I would personally choose a garter. There's an order of knights in England who wear them."

"I know. I read about them."

"Oh you did? Good! But maybe a garter is not exactly right for school. Come here!” He sets the toast down on the edge of the counter and wipes the crumbs from his hand onto his pants. “I’ll show you how to do it.”

He holds out his hand and Fitz hands him the tie.

"If I learned it, you will", his uncle says and throws the tie around Fitz's neck. 

"This part here goes under, then over, then through here", he tugs at the tie. Fitz has no idea what he's doing. "And then you just slide it up like….. that."

"Does it have to be this tight?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You're going to have to show me again."

"No one ever learns it the first time. I wish I could say I'll help you every morning until you do learn, but I can't. The funeral arrangements are going to be keeping me pretty busy this week." 

"Oh. Right." 

"You can do what I did when I figured I was never going to get the knot as neat as Chiv's. Just slide the tie over your head and use the same knot for a week."

"I can do that?"

"Just until I have time to teach you."

He raises his hand to ruffle Fitz’s hair, stops, gives him an awkward pat on the head instead.

“You have hair like mine. Doesn’t need any help looking messy.”

Fitz had never thought his hair was a problem.

“I like it” Verity says, “But maybe save yourself some trouble and tie it up.”

"I will."

"Good lad. Now go get something to eat, the food at the Academy is very good but you have a lot to get through before lunch."

Breakfast has been set out in the adjacent dining room. It's not as lavish as the brunch outside the day before but fresh fruit in addition to oatmeal, toast and bacon still beats the weetabix he’s used to. He manages to talk Uncle Verity into sitting down and eating with him.

Their talk is interrupted by Regal slamming the door open.

“My god”, he stops dead in his tracks, staring at Fitz who's just got up for more scrambled eggs, “You actually look like a human being.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, and he steals a quick glance at Verity, who looks at Fitz and then away again. 

Verity mumbles something that Fitz thinks is “I know.” 

Then Regal shakes himself off and when he next opens his mouth the familiar sneery tone is back. “The glamour might hold if you keep your mouth shut but unfortunately we all know that’s not going to be possible. I know it must be hard for you but try not to embarrass us all today, would you?”

Fitz closes his eyes and counts to five. How is it possible that he's related to this migraine in human form? 

Regal saunters over to the food and loads himself a plate full of melon and the crispiest rashers of bacon. He somehow manages to look comfortable and relaxed in his uniform, his shirt doesn't bunch up even though he's leaning so far back in his chair it's balancing on two legs.

After his initial rather confusing reaction Regal pays no attention to Fitz or Verity until it's time for them to head out to the car.

The talk with Verity had all but dissipated Fitz's nervousness but all it takes is one calculatedly condescending nod from Regal for the lump to settle itself back into his throat.

"Don't worry", Verity says and pats him on the shoulder again. "It's just a school. You'll do fine."

Fitz is immediately reminded of yesterday morning and Verity calling them a normal family and has to fight down a hysterical giggle. Biting the insides of his cheeks, he manages a sober nod before following Regal down the hall and out the door.

  
  


Verity made Regal promise to give Fitz a tour of the school before his first class, and in theory, he kept that promise, by making the driver do an extra lap around the grounds and then simply telling Fitz to "Deal with it", before getting out and almost hitting him in the face with the car door. Fitz gets out slower. He can see the driver's stony face in the rear view mirror. He's still unsure how to talk to servants, Regal doesn't seem to notice them at all unless he wants them to do something for him, but Fitz feels uncomfortable being in the presence of people and treating them like air. 

"Thank you", is what he settles on, and shuts the door behind him.

He pulls at the collar of the pristine white shirt. The school uniform is without a doubt the most confining outfit ever invented. The waist of the pressed trousers sits entirely too high to be comfortable, and the unnecessary lining makes crouching and sitting an absolute pain in the ass. The jacket is too hot and the three, _three,_ buttons at the throat of the shirt make the collar feel like a choke hold. How is he supposed to focus and learn anything when he is forced to be this uncomfortable?

He comes to a halt at the open iron gates. The red-bricked wall kept him from getting a proper look at The Caution Farseer Academy of Secondary Education from the car. Red-leaved ivy that covers the wall has mostly overrun the gate as well, and most of the school building itself. He’s standing at the start of a wide sandy path leading to the main entrance, cutting through plush green lawn speckled here and there with early autumn leaves in vivid yellow and orange.

He’s walking into a postcard.

The red of the ivy is the exact same shade as the maroon of the uniform blazers and occasional cheerleader outfits he can spot in the crowd milling about outside. There's pairs and groups of boys dressed identically to Fitz and girls in short skirts, chatting, laughing and hugging each other everywhere. As he makes his way towards the old stone building he catches bits and pieces of conversations about summer, fond memories of trips to far-away countries, yacht parties and private jets. Everyone here has perfect teeth and a gold watch on their wrist. Everyone also seems to be smiling and happy. 

It's like stepping into an alternative universe where no one has to wear second hand shoes with holes in them, sit in class wet because they have no umbrella or be late because the bus broke down.

And where everyone, for some unfathomable reason, _likes_ Regal. Within the first fifteen minutes he’s spent among his new school mates, making his way past them across the yard, and doing his best to avoid stepping on anyone sitting on the marble steps leading up to the main entrance, he learns that Regal is the student body president, because, of course he is. Everyone in the school loves him because he made the cafeteria serve pizza, was single-handedly responsible for organizing some absolutely epic party right before summer holidays that everyone is still talking about and because somehow everyone believes him to be the reason a teacher they all hated got fired. And everyone is jealous of his perfect hair.

There’s a goddamn portrait of him in the entrance hall, gilded frame and all, in a row of other esteemed current students and past alumni. He looks flawless, not at all uncomfortable in the horrible torture suit, smiling like sunrise. Fitz has never seen him look so happy. He didn’t think Regal was capable of feeling anything genuinely positive. It makes him look like a completely different person. The thought is unsettling, like there are two Regals. That’s two too many.

The portrait next to his is no less disturbing. 

Fitz blinks. 

It’s not a mirror. The boy in the photo has his hair braided tight to his scalp and he’s wearing the same gold pin on the lapel of his school jacket as Regal. His skin is darker than Fitz’s and his one dimple is on his right cheek. Fitz’s is on his left. Where an angel poked him with a fingertip, his mother used to say. He rubs his cheek.

He’s seen photos of his father before, many times. But never as a kid. Never as a real person, not a suited-up business wiz shaking hands with ministers or a serious Victorian ghost in a family portrait. 

Chivalry Farseer would have been 17 or 18 when the picture was taken. The age he got Fitz's mother pregnant. 

Clever, courteous and with a quirky sense of humour. He looks at the smiling boy and wonders if he ever thought about how he was going to die.

When he finally turns away he immediately jumps a foot in the air and screams.

The man standing right behind him can only be described as dark. Dark overalls, black hair escaping the messy bun on top of his head and eyes like pieces of coal staring at Fitz from a dirty, bearded face. He looks like a deranged chimney sweep.

"Jesus Christ!" Fitz falls back against the wall between the two portraits with a hand on his chest. "What the hell?"

"You."

"What?" His heart is still racing. Some people are pointing at him and laughing. What a first impression to make. Why did Crazy Soot Man have to make him embarrass himself in front of everyone on his first day?

"You're Chivalry's son."

"Yes I am. Is that a reason to scare the living daylights out of me?"

The man looks down, shoulders slumping. He looks like a chastised dog.

"Sorry."

Fitz takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the white spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"So, you.. knew my father?"

"I did. He was my best friend."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Are you like… a teacher here?" He doesn't look like a teacher. 

The man laughs, a bitter, dry laugh.

"Oh no, no. I'm the janitor. Well, one of them. I have a whole army of people working for me, keeping everything here looking nice and functional."

“Oh. Well. It all looks very nice:”

The man frowns. Fitz can’t think of anything he’s said or done to make the man angry at him, but then again, in the last few days he’s learned that his face is enough of a reason for some people. Him existing is enough for some people. 

But then the man holds out his dirty hand to him. Warily, Fitz takes it. His handshake is very firm.

“Burrich.”

“Fitz.”

“FitzChivalry.” 

Is it a correction or just affirmation? This dude is weird.

"Walk with me a little."

"Uhh, I'm supposed to see the guidance counselor before the morning assembly."

"I'll take you there."

His tone doesn't leave room for argument.

Students leap out of his way. Despite his unkempt demeanor everyone seems to treat Burrich with a mixture of fear and respect. One dark glance from him makes a young man pick up the chocolate wrapper he tossed on the floor and obediently take it to the nearest bin. 

Teachers in sharp suits nod greetings to him.

He walks with a slight limp but makes up for it with determined speed. Fitz almost has trouble keeping up, since no one seems too eager to get out of _his_ way.

"Your father was a good man", Burrich says when they make it to a less crowded hallway, this one with fancy red and gold wallpaper and lined with polished wooden doors. "Some people are going to tell you that he wasn’t, because for some people decency means weakness."

"I haven't heard anyone say bad things about him. Except my grandpa but he hates everyone."

Burrich lets out a cold laugh.

"I hope it stays that way. Your father had a lot of enemies. But less than he had friends. Most of those friends will be happy to help you with anything you might ever need."

"You're the first friend of his I've ever met." Fitz considers his own words, then corrects himself: "Apart from Verity." He almost adds, And Mom, but decides against it.

"Verity is a stand-up guy. Unassuming, fair and honest. Those are admirable qualities in a person. He's always been like that."

“Have you known them for long? My father and Uncle Verity.”

“Almost my entire life.”

“Were you a student here too?” 

“Yes, every year they choose one student to become a janitor. Keep asking smart questions like that and I’d say you have a pretty good shot at it.”

Fitz stares at him.

“That was a joke.”

“Oh.”

Burrich sighs. “I didn’t go to a school as fine as this. Far from it. But that never bothered your father. He didn’t care how much money people had or how they dressed or where they were from, he was… He just…” He stops and surprises Fitz by grabbing him firmly by the shoulders. “He was a good man. You must believe that.”

“I believe that”, Fitz says because it seems really important to Burrich and he isn’t the kind of man Fitz wishes to anger.

“Do you really?”

“Yes.” It’s a little disturbing how easy it is becoming to lie to everyone.

“Good lad.” Now he sounds like Verity. Burrich lets his hands fall from Fitz's shoulders. “This is the administration corridor. The office at the end is the head master’s, the one to the left of it is the guidance counselor.” He holds up a warning hand and Fitz swallows the thank you he was about to voice. “You have enemies, boy, simply because of who you are. I’m not telling you that to frighten you, but to offer you my help. Your father always hoped you would get a chance to attend this school, and I promised him that when that day came, I would help and protect you as best I could. I intend to keep that promise. I just ask you to promise me one thing.”

“What is that?”

“That you don’t go looking for trouble.”

“Why would I do that?” Fitz laughs.

“Why would you”, Burrich chuckles but there’s no mirth in it, “Why indeed.”

  
  
  


The guidance counselor is an old white lady with her gray hair in a tight bun and three strands of pearls around her neck. She stands up to shake his hand with both of hers.

“Sit down, young man”, she urges him as she digs out a file from a pile of similar ones on her desk. “Ah, FitzChivalry Farseer.”

“That’s me.”

"You're the spitting image of your father", she sighs. Her eyes are starting to well up. 

"So I've heard", he says.

The old woman keeps wiping her eyes all the while as she explains the school curriculum and campus rules to him and loads his arms with maps, timetables, a short history of the academy and even a leather-bound calendar and soft woven scarf in midnight blue.

"The Academy is ranked the third best for upper secondary education in this country. Our students go on to study at the best universities in the world. You are expected to choose two to three extra-curricular activities…." 

Her voice is very monotonous. He doesn't mean to tune her out, it just happens. He pulls at the soft fringe of the scarf. 

"... especially for a member of the Farseer family."

Huh? He blinks.

"So have you considered it?" She smiles warmly at him. "Joining the student council."

Oh god. "No! I mean… I don't know. I'll have to see, after I get settled in properly."

"Of course, dear."

She checks her list, tapping each line on the paper with the tip of her pen. "That's all, then. Any questions?” Fitz shakes his head. “Good. If you have anything you wish to talk about you can come see me at any time. You head on down to the great hall now, to meet your new friends."

  
  


"Hey, look! It's the bastard!" 

Fitz whirls around, but whoever yelled it has disappeared into the disorganized flow of students entering the auditorium. The word feels like an electric shock. So far the only people he’s heard using that word to mean him were grandpa and Regal. 

After that the conversations around him seem to take on a more sinister tone. He keeps imagining people guiltily shutting up when he gets within hearing distance, and suddenly feels that everyone is staring at him. 

He reluctantly joins the queue moving steadily inside and tries to ignore the suspicious thoughts racing inside his skull.

Walking into the grand room does not help. He desperately wishes he wasn’t so tall as he tries to hide behind two girls a head shorter than him as he makes his way towards the back row. 

Glad to be away from the crowd, he sinks low in his seat and leans his head against the backrest. The seats are covered in plush maroon velvet, nothing like the horrible orange plastic torture devices his old school tried to pass as seats.

The vast space is full of noise and laughter. Two rows down from Fitz a girl in a cheerleader uniform is playing music from her phone while her similarly attired friend next to her is waving her hands in the air, reciting dance moves. A rolled up ball of paper flies through her raised arms and someone yells “Touchdown!” The cheerleader does not look pleased.

A girl with long black hair in the very front row is standing up and having a shouted conversation with someone on the other side of the room, she keeps slapping off the hands of someone beside her trying to pull her back down.

His old school might not have been even close to as fine as this one but there he was part of the fun. 

Someone is idly drumming on a guitar not too far from him, several others join in singing the wrong song.

He remembers an eight grade master plan of Dirk’s, they had hidden a slice of pizza behind a radiator and it had caught fire a few days later during the assembly.

“HEY!”

Oh god. He knows that voice.

“Are you people _seriously_ going to make me stand here and wait for you to SHUT UP AND LISTEN?”

Every single person in the auditorium falls completely quiet. On the stage, Regal smiles and drums his fingers against the lectern he’s standing behind.

“Wasn’t that hard, was it. Now, aren’t we all just absolutely thrilled to be back here? New semester, and yet nothing has changed. As far as I know whoever it was that broke into the teachers’ lounge in May has not been caught, and even though I have no idea who did it I'd like to say well done, Bolt, but why on earth did you leave all of Mr. Cohn's ugly ties behind?"

Everyone laughs and two people stand up to take a bow, a thin bald man wearing a garish pink tie and a tall boy with broad shoulders and gelled-back dark hair. The latter, who Fitz assumes is Bolt, cheers with his hands above his head like he's just won a boxing fight.

"Sit down", Regal says into the microphone, "the cops are on their way. I’m kidding, it wasn’t him obviously, everyone knows he can’t work doors.”

Fitz has to give it to him, he is entertaining. He has a charming way of speaking that tiptoes the line between rebellious and humorous and falls just short of actually incriminating anyone or encouraging any rule-breaking. He goes on to call out a few more people, some of his jabs sound almost cruel but no one seems to be nothing but happy for the attention. Maybe they’re inside jokes, Fitz thinks as he watches a blonde girl, blushing pink, stand up and curtsy after Regal names her the recipient of some absolutely nonsensical award. Or maybe everyone’s just afraid of him.

Apparently the football team did exceptionally well in the spring term and Regal, with a showy yawn, is forced to admit that they deserve more funding and will be going on some lavish training trip to a health resort in the mountains. Loud hollering and whistling from the audience, a blue-and-white cheerleading pom pom flies through the air.

Then a figure steps out from the shadows at the back of the stage behind Regal. A man in a bottle-green three-piece suit with snow white hair slicked back, a neat white beard and so much gold in his wrists and fingers they catch every single stage-light. Regal doesn’t seem to pay him any attention, but it must have been planned because the timing is perfect.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue two wrap it up, as sad as it makes me. I leave you with these eternally inspirational words of one Soren Kierkegaard,” an over-dramatic pause, “Party rock is in the house tonight.”

The white haired man’s eye-roll is visible to the back row.

“What?” Regal asks with mock-affront, still speaking into the microphone, “I’m a fan.”

The man simply points towards the seats and Regal, laughing and clearly living for the applause he gets, skips off the stage.

“Thank you for that, Regal”, is the first thing the man says when he takes his place behind the lectern, “it’s such a pleasure to know that we have managed to raise not only critically-thinking philosophers but also intrepid detectives in this fine facility. Truly warms my heart.”

He clears his throat. 

“As I personally have little to no use for rhetorical gimmicks and also plenty of things to do, I’m going to keep this a bit shorter”, he says, his words undermined slightly by the dramatic lowering of lighting. “To our new students, welcome to The Caution Farseer Academy of Secondary Education, and to our friends, welcome back. My name is Chade Fallstar and I have the dubious pleasure of standing at the helm of this ship. Each and every one of you is here for a reason. We, the staff are committed to helping you become the best you can be, whatever that is. For some of you it’s business, for some art or sports. All we ask from you is dedication.”

And money, Fitz thinks. 

Most of what the headmaster says he has already heard from the guidance counselor. The only truly surprising part of his speech is the ending. The man legitimately disappears in a puff of smoke. Fitz cannot help but gasp, but seems to be in the minority with his reaction. Most of the other students hardly notice anything strange. 

“He does that all the time”, a girl two seats away from him whispers to a pair of presumably new students who had started to clap. “You’ll get used to it.”

  
  


After the assembly is over, with some barbed final words from a tiny and incredibly wrinkly old woman who has introduced herself as simply ‘the Librarian’, Fitz chooses to stay in his seat until most of the crowd has made their exit.

He feels, if possible, even more like an outsider than he did before.

Nothing like being lonely in a crowd, he thinks bitterly as he drags his feet down the stairs. Maybe he should go for a walk outside. At least the grounds are pretty.

Before he can get out of the auditorium however, he finds himself face to face with the headmaster.

"Well. Here you finally are, boy." The man’s eyes are also green, brighter than the velvet of his suit. His skin is a map of scars, faded but visible as lighter dots and lines all over his face. Fitz tries not to stare.

“Come on”, the man says, sounding almost impatient. “I’d like a few words.”

He turns in the wrong direction, away from the doors, and pure curiosity makes Fitz follow him without question. Up onto the stage and back towards the corner where he first appeared, then on through a narrow and somewhat dusty corridor between stage equipment and cardboard trees they go until the man opens another door into… a janitor’s closet. Fitz bumps into him.

“Not so fast”, the old man chuckles, then opens another door to the administration corridor Burrich showed Fitz earlier.

His office is the most interesting room Fitz has ever seen. Every single surface is filled with beakers, test tubes, books, strange statues and old maps. He has a very real-looking fireplace at the far end of the room and a cozy armchair in front of it. The tall windows are covered with heavy red velvet curtains and the room is lit by a massive standing chandelier with what looks to be a hundred candles on it. 

That has to be a fire hazard, Fitz thinks. Especially when left alone in a room full of paper and books. He can’t see a computer anywhere, only heavy leather binders and a fancy old-fashioned feather quill standing in a metal holder shaped like a deer skull.

The headmaster seats himself behind his messy desk and points at a chair in the corner. Fitz sits down obediently.

“Do you know who I am?”

Seems a bit of a silly question, Fitz thinks as he glances at the massive brass name plate on the edge of the desk. Chade Fallstar, headmaster. Not to mention he literally just introduced himself in front of the whole school. Maybe this is some kind of a test.

"Do you talk at all?"

"Yes."

"Good. That helps a lot at school."

Those sharp eyes are staring at him again, probably expecting him to talk more. 

"You look just like him."

"I know." Pretty soon he's going to run out of polite things to say to that. 

"Whether that'll prove to be useful or dangerous remains to be seen."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a Farseer now, boy. Not a legitimate one but a Farseer none the less. Bearing that name gives you advantage but also brings with it a lot of responsibilities. Our ancestors built this town, its history is our history."

"And this school."

"Yes. This school too", the man crosses his bony fingers and leans his chin on his knuckles. "Inside this school as well as outside of it you now represent not only yourself, but the family."

"United front."

"Precisely." He looks very pleased.

“Wait”, Fitz furrows his brow. ”‘Our’ ancestors?”

Green eyes narrow bemusedly.

“Who are you?”

“Ah, so Shrewd didn’t tell you. I wonder what he thought he would gain by that. Always looking for unexpected advantages, that one. But then again, I guess I am too…” he pauses to tap his lip with his finger, then sets the Newton’s cradle on his desk moving. “What indeed”, he mumbles, staring at the silver balls clicking together.

“Sir?” Fitz starts, but gets distracted by a sudden movement in the corner of his eye. A small brown head has appeared from behind a precariously high pile of books on a low shelf behind Mr Fallstar’s chair, and is followed by a sleek, slender body and a fluffy white-tipped tail.

It looks uncannily like a wild weasel but Fitz supposes must be a small ferret, if only for legal reasons. The little guy sniffs at a pen, scratches his nose with a front paw and then hops onto another, lower but equally unstable looking stack of books. Mr Fallstar pays him no heed.

“Oh, in this room, call me Chade. We’re family. My brother has some plan for you, do not doubt it. He hasn’t disclosed it to me yet but there’s always a plan.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes, yes. My little brother, your grandfather.”

Fitz doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t like the idea of the headmaster and Grandfather Shrewd talking about him but doesn’t really know how he can avoid that. He studies the old man’s thin, scarred face, sharp eyes and high cheekbones. He does look like a Farseer, now that he knows it it’s pretty plain to see. He’s not even surprised, not really. He cannot seem to look anywhere these days without seeing his new last name. It feels uncomfortably like a very tightly woven net.

"Ferrets run away a lot”, he says. Talking about animals is safer. The little animal hops onto Chade’s armrest. “How do you not lose him?"

"I do. Several times a day." He runs his hand down the little creatures back and gets an affectionate nip in return. "But Slink always finds his way back somehow."

“Because you’re smart,” Fitz tells Slink and offers his hand to be sniffed. A tiny tongue tickles the pad of his thumb, and then Slink whirls around and squirrels up Chade’s sleeve, pops out of his collar and leaps back onto the bookshelf.

“He is. Smart enough to know how to pick his battles and focus on what is important. Just as I think-” A display of old metal weights falls off the shelf and hits the floor with ear-splitting clatter. The only bit of Slink they can see is the white tip of his tail as he disappears into the sleeve of a black overcoat hanging from a buck antler nailed to the wall.

“Is he really?”

“No he’s not. That metaphor was born doomed.”

Fitz can’t help it, he cracks up laughing. Chade’s serious glare doesn’t hold much longer.

“You’ll do fine here, boy”, he says as he leans back over the handrest of his impressive leather chair, trying to reach the box Slink dropped. After a moment of reaching he gives up and straightens with an annoyed huff. “You just need to find your place. Find who to befriend and who to avoid.”

“Oh yeah, Burrich said something like that.”

“Burrich? Ah, he would.” For a moment the old man stares out of his window, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. When he turns back to Fitz his green eyes are strange, and he takes a deep breath, as if intending to say something momentous, but then decides against it.

“Welcome to the Academy, FitzChivalry Farseer,” he says instead, and offers his hand to Fitz over the desk. Fitz shakes it.

  
  


By mid-day he’s so exhausted the only thing he wants to do is go home and sleep. He’s supposed to be in calculus class but gives up searching for the right room at quarter past noon. Let them chalk it up to first day confusion, he thinks as he wanders aimlessly down a narrow gravel path. He just needs a break from people staring at him and whispering about him. Not that most of the other students he’s met today have been anything but polite to him. But all those ominous warnings have put him on his toes, as well as the fact that he cannot let himself underestimate Regal’s influence over everyone at this school. Fitz already knows he’s more than capable of being extremely petty and mean for no reason and has no interest in finding out how much worse it can get.

He wonders if he should call Molly, but decides against it. He doesn’t want to sound like all he does is whine. So he walks on, feeling like he should try and come up with a plan but isn’t entirely sure what for, until something brings him to a halt. He can feel someone looking at him before he actually sees anyone, a strange tingle like an ant running up the back of his neck. He turns around.

The boy is standing off the path, half hidden by the shadow of the line of cypress trees that run along the way to the football field. He’s slim, with gold-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and he's staring right at Fitz, barely blinking.

"I had a dream about you."

His voice is airy and melodic and he tilts his head slowly without breaking the creepy eye contact.

"You had a dog. In the dream I mean. But you don't, now."

"I have a dog at home", Fitz says, then corrects himself. "Had a dog. I had to leave him behind."

"Oh. I'm sorry. He seemed very nice in the dream."

They stare at each other for a moment before Fitz remembers his manners, steps off the path to offer the stranger his hand.

"I'm Fitz. Well, FitzChivalry. But no one calls me that except the servants."

"I'm Amber."

"But that's… that's a girl's name."

Amber kicks at the grass with her toes. 

"So you're… a girl?"

"I am. But some days I feel less like one."

"You wear the boys' uniform."

A shrug. 

"I have both. Today I'm wearing the boys' uniform. Depends how I feel in the morning, I don't mind being a girl but sometimes I don't want to look like one. This school is fairly progressive, believe it or not. That, or they just don't care. Either way, worked out well enough for me. I thought I might think of a boy name too, but I haven’t come up with a good one yet."

"Oh." Fitz has no idea what to say. Amber is still staring at him.

"What do people call you then? The people here I mean."

"Amber. That’s fine. I like my name. But sometimes people call me other things, whatever they can come up with. A freak, a weirdo, a fool." His, her? voice is so painfully casual, like she's talking about the weather. What is the right thing to say to something like that?

"Fool like a jester?" Fitz says without thinking. "Kings and emperors had fools in courts. The Fool was the only person who could tell the King the honest truth."

Amber looks at him with an odd smile."It sounds different when you say it."

Something in that small smile makes the next words die at Fitz's lips.

Amber's eyes are very light hazel, they look bright yellow gold when the dappling sunlight hits them.

It feels like an important moment but he doesn't know what it means. Then she laughs and it's like a spell has been broken.

She lifts her bag off the ground and hoists it onto her shoulder. The bag looks heavy and very large on her slim frame.

"What's in there?" he asks as they start walking back towards the double doors.

"Assorted bits of broken furniture. Most of it probably garbage but some possibly useful for this art project I'm working on."

"Oh, that sounds cool."

"Have you seen the art room yet?"

"No, I never got much of a tour," he cringes, "my guide was astonishingly unhelpful."

"I'll show you. We have three rooms but the one I use is the best one. But I should tell you", she stops and lets the bag fall down again, "that it's absolutely just a ruse to get you to carry this for me."

He laughs as he lifts the bag, every bit as heavy as it looked, onto his shoulder. An idea strikes him.

"Do you know how to use chopsticks? Can you teach me?"

"You're paying for the sushi."

"Deal.”

Amber turns out to be the best guide anyone could ask for. She shows him another shortcut behind the stage in the auditorium that saves fifteen minutes when you're in a hurry to get to the science wing. She introduces him to the grumpy old librarian who doesn’t like anyone but for some reason has decided to make an exception for her and lets her keep books past the due date. She knows how to get up on the roof of the gym hall to eat lunch or look at birds or just nap in the sun.

Her way of talking is incredibly engaging, Fitz finds himself laughing more than he's done since hearing about his father. They have few classes together but Amber invites him to spend all his free periods in the art room. 

"I get a lot of freedom because it's a scholarship project I'm working on. The school board wants me to get into a fancy art college because it would make the academy look good. And I'm excused from PE so I'm there whenever I don't have class."

"Why are you excused from PE?"

An enigmatic smile. "Because I don't like it."

"That's enough? You don't need a real reason?"

"It is a real reason."

"I don't get it."

"No", she sighs melodramatically and pretends to blink away tears, "you really don't."

"Now you're just making fun of me."

"I am not! Quite the opposite. I'm taking your stupid questions entirely too seriously. Anyway here we are!."

The art room is more like a combination of an atelier and a workshop. Unlike the rest of the school that’s all dark wood, polished marble and antique furniture this room feels relaxed and welcoming. The walls are covered in paintings and drawings, the six wooden work tables all bear the marks of years of use, and there’s even a battered old leather sofa right by the door. The air smells faintly of wood and turpentine and Fitz can see tiny specks of dust dancing in the air when the sunlight hits them.

One end of the room is filled with easels, stacks of canvases and paint brushes standing in paint-stained cups, while the other end is covered in sawdust, tools and bits and pieces of wood. Only one table is occupied. Behind a veritable mountain of scrap metal and assorted wiring sits a boy with warm brown skin, dark eyes and shaved head.

"Hands, this is Fitz, he'll be spending time hiding here from now on, too. Fitz, this is Hands. He builds robots that occasionally work."

"Hands? Like," Fitz wiggles his fingers, "hands?"

"Yes", the boy agrees smugly, "the ladies all agree I have talent."

"Also might just be that that's how everyone's phones autocorrect Hans", Amber muses and heaves her giant bag onto a wooden work table.

“Stop ruining my legend”, Hands grumbles. Amber ignores him and turns to Fitz instead.

“What’s your schedule like?”

Fitz pulls the folded piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to her. 

“Oh wow, you have a lot of business modules.”

“What, like, more than is normal?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Let me see”, Hands leans over to look at the sheet, makes a face. “Yeah that’s not normal. Why would you do that to yourself?”

“I didn’t”, Fitz says and feels stupid. Should he have known that was an option? 

"Well, at least you have home ec with Mrs. Cook”, Hand tries to console him, “She’s fun. She just gossips about other teachers and never gives bad grades. And she brings us home made cookies."

“Maybe they’ll let you change some of your courses once you’re properly settled in”, Amber offers. “What subjects do you like?”

“Not business”, Fitz mumbles moodily and hates himself a little for it. You’re supposed to get people to like you, he rebukes himself, not make them think you’re a depressing ass. 

“Biology”, he tries in a lighter tone. “And maybe history.”

“Ooh, we have an animal biology study group that does field trips”, Hands exclaims, “We go hiking and stuff. Last year we visited a marine biology research center. You should totally join!”

Fitz wants to. He wants to, so bad, but he is pretty certain his business-heavy study plan is far from being an accident. He wonders if he could ask Chade about it. Or maybe he could just do abysmally badly and get himself kicked out of all the classes he doesn’t like? 

Yeah, Grandfather Shrewd would love that.

“That sounds really cool”, he tells Hands.

In the end Hand and Amber end up planning a new schedule for him, filled with art, history, biology and lots of free periods filled with silly things like “picnic on the lawn” and “visiting the old science building that’s probably haunted”.

All too soon the hour has passed and Fitz has to get to his next class.

"I'll walk with you. I'm going to head back to the library", Amber says, jumping up from her chair and dusting herself off. "What about you?" She turns to Hands. 

"Nah, I have one more hour to spend here, ”I’m gonna try and get this guy to walk." 

"Good luck with that. See you tomorrow then."

"Bye! It was nice meeting you, Fitz."

"You too."

Amber takes him through yet another shortcut and in less than half the time it took before, they’re standing in the main hall again, by another wall decorated with pompous portraits. Fitz is supposed to head on upstairs and Amber out towards the library, but for some reason they’re still just standing there, in front of a picture of a curly-haired woman with massive gold hoop earrings.

"Merry Farseer", Amber reads. "What a nice name. I've walked past this picture every day for two years and never bothered to stop and read her name." She looks up at Merry's smiling face.

"Do you know her?"

"No. But I guess she's another great-great-grandmother."

"You don't really act like a Farseer." 

Thank goodness, Fitz thinks. "I've only been one for two days." He brushes Merry Farseer's name plaque with his thumb. "I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing my name everywhere."

"I know I wouldn't if it was my name."

"What is yours?"

"My what?"

"Your last name."

"Darling."

"It is not!"

"It is! My name is Amber Darling. It's an old English name."

"You're making fun of me again."

"Nope. But if you keep making fun of my name I'll stop answering unless you call me Darling."

_Hey, I just met you_

_And this is crazy._

_But here’s my number_

_So call me, maybe_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack:
> 
> Maybe Tonight by Nicole Atkins  
> Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen  
> Party Rock Anthem by Soren Kierkegaard


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of chapter two, in which everyone is an artist in their own way, Chade smokes a pipe and Carrod gets a Tinder profile

_ I'll never know what _

_ You have shown to other eyes _

_ Go, or go ahead and surprise me _

_ Signs you've lead the way to a mirage _

_ Go, or go ahead and just try me _

“So, the dream thing. How does that work?”

“The dream thing?” Amber doesn’t look up from her Scrabble tiles. It’s Tuesday afternoon and Fitz, Amber and Hands are having coffee at an outdoor seating area behind the main building of the Academy, protected from the wind by the old stone building. Hands had warned him that she was unbeatable at Scrabble and after three games he’s starting to believe it. 

“You said you knew me because you had a dream about me. What did you mean by that?”

“I meant what I said”, she starts setting tiles on the board. “Cat -A-C-L-Y-S-M. One, four… triple word score.. 44.”

“What? No it isn’t!”

“Yes it is.”

He recounts. She’s right.

“Hands, you should be the one doing the counting. Might help you with that.”

“I can count”, Hands grumbles at her, then erases whatever graph he just drew in his notebook, “Statistical analysis isn’t math. It’s sophisticated torture.”

“Ok, then.” Amber counts six tiles from the bag and organizes them on her tray.

“So what you’re telling me is that your dreams literally come true?”

“Not all of them. Just the prophetic ones. And they necessarily don’t come true as much as they tell me things to expect and look forward to.”

“Prophetic dreams aren’t real.”

“Yes they are”, she sounds a little offended. “I knew you had a dog!”

“Lots of people have dogs.” 

“You can’t ask questions and then just decide you don’t like the answers.” 

“That's not -” he starts, then stops. He really shouldn't argue with her. It's not like there's an overabundance of people wanting to be his friends. "Can you explain how it works, then?"

"Not to someone who doesn't want to know."

"I'm sorry. I do want to know."

"Are you sure?"

"What?"

"Are you sure you want to know."

"Yes?" What kind of a question is that? "Would I be asking if I didn't?"

"Maybe. If you didn't know what you were asking."

"If I knew what I was asking, would I be asking?"

"Probably not. But maybe you should be."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"There you are!" 

The victorious shriek is all the warning Fitz gets before slim brown arms wrap around him from behind and he's blinded by a facefull of brown curly hair. 

His enthusiastic attacker holds on for a little too long for comfort before releasing him and stepping around his chair. He's face to face with a short girl in ripped denim and faded flannel with a guitar case on her back and fists on her hips.

"Is it true you're a Farseer?"

"Hello to you too? Yes, I guess it is true."

"So you're related to Regal.. how exactly?

"Unfortunately."

"Ha ha. Don't try to be clever with me, I'm better at it." 

She whirls around and points an accusing finger at Amber. "You!" 

Amber looks up from her tiles, the very image of innocence. "Me?" 

"Yes you!"

"What about me?"

"You've been hogging him for two days! We've all been dying to see him! Did you think you could hide him from me?"

Amber pretends to consider the accusation. She’s moving the tiles around on the board, messing up the game. She's spelling out something that starts with F-U-C.

"I'm pretty sure I could, actually, considering I didn't even try and you still couldn't find him."

Careful to stay absolutely silent, like a man trying to slip away unnoticed by two lions, Hands slides off the couch and begins a very silly slow motion escape from the scene. He only shakes his head when Fitz gives him what he hopes is a pleading look.

Fitz wants to leave too but the girl still has her hand on his shoulder. Her grip is very tight, bordering on painful. He hopes Amber won't irritate her any further or he might actually lose an arm. 

"Well, I found him now so you're going to have to share."

"That's not polite, Starling. He's a boy not a library book. Sit down or stand up properly would you please, Hands, looking at you makes my back ache."

Hands, who is frozen in a comical crouch, mid step, barely two feet from the couch, gives a resolute sigh and sits back down next to Amber

Starling, Fitz quickly learns, is an aspiring singer-songwriter with a mildly successful YouTube channel, has a little brother named Jay, and hates having to wake up too early but loves being back at school because she gets bored at home. She apparently knows every bit of gossip there is to know at the academy. 

"All kinds of stuff", she dodges when Fitz tries to casually inquire what she's heard about him. "You're new and interesting and your name is on the wall. And Regal doesn't like you."

"The feeling is one hundred percent mutual."

"I figured. Shame. I was hoping you'd be my ticket into a house party or two."

"Nope. Sorry."

"Ah well, things might change", Starling shrugs and then shocks him by grabbing the side of his face. "Hold still", she says and gently brushes the top of his cheek with her thumb. "Eyelash." 

She and Amber drift from trading snarky jabs to cool politeness, but Fitz has the feeling that they don't like each other very much. There's more of an edge to Amber's humor now, her smile is less genuine. They don't seem like they're enjoying the situation much but neither is prepared to admit defeat and leave. 

Trying to slide from under Starling's hand unnoticed not only doesn't work, but makes her actually set her guitar case against the wall and sit down on the handrest of Fitz's chair and wrap an arm around his shoulders. She keeps on talking like nothing has changed.

Fitz doesn't know what to make of Amber's smile. 

“You’re choking me”, he tells Starling after a few minutes, trying to sound as respectful as possible.

"Nonsense", Starling scoffs. "I'm barely touching you." She leans even closer and twists her neck to look at his face. "Do you have issues with physical intimacy?"

A snort of laughter from Hands. Amber has the decency to bite her lip.

"No!"

"Then why would you have any problems with me sitting here?"

"I…" What can he possibly say that won't get twisted into meaning something completely different by her?

"What was that?" Starling demands.

"Failure to communicate coherently can be a sign of oxygen deficiency in the brain", Amber offers helpfully.

"Oh shut up!"

"Just saying."

*

When Fitz gets home on Tuesday, the first thing he does when he gets home and back into normal human clothes is grab his schoolbooks and drag a sun chair to the messy part of the garden to try and get some homework done.

It's warm but there's a crisp breeze playing with the leaves of the knobbly old oak.

His frayed old jeans and the worn light green hoodie Dirk once forgot at his place and never took back feel like heaven after another long day in the torture suit.

Such a shame to have to waste an afternoon like this staring at numbers. 

He leans back, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. There's a smell of apples in the air, a hint of some herb he can't name but reminds him of grandma, and even a faint note of smoke. Maybe someone has a bonfire burning somewhere not too far away.

When he opens his eyes all he can see is white fluffy clouds, lazily drifting across the bright blue expanse of the sky.

One looks like an old man smoking a pipe, and the tiny one following it could be a terrier like Smithy, dragging something that looks like a very big top hat in his mouth.

He turns a fresh page in his notebooks and tries to get the image down on paper. 

It’s hard to get Smithy’s face right. He started too small and the eyes and the darker hairs above them are all getting mushed up together.

He turns another page.

He thought he would never forget how his dog looked but trying to coax the proportions of his face and the length of his tail in relation to his back legs out of his memory and onto paper is next to impossible. 

“I haven’t forgotten you”, he promises one particularly ugly blob-Smithy.

A glance at his phone tells him he has managed to gloriously waste over half an hour of homework time with nothing to show for it.

Resolutely he opens his Contemporary American Literature workbook instead. Maybe reading will be easier to focus on than maths.

Turns out it’s not.

Nothing seems to stick, he reads the same sentence four times and still cannot understand it.

A gust of wind disturbs the old oak, the creaking of the branches reminds him of grandma again.

The tree almost looks like her, too, bent by years but made tough by experience. 

He turns a blank page again, and sets his pen on it.  


There’s a point where the trunk of the oak bends at almost 90 degree angle before curving up again, most likely the part that was growing straight broke off at some point. Perhaps severed by a lightning strike. Or heavy snow.

The angle of the trunk appears on the paper almost effortlessly, followed by smaller branches and leaves and the fork at the top. He even adds the carving his father and Uncle Verity made all those years ago, he has no way of knowing where it is exactly but he decides to curve the text under a branch knot detail he's particularly proud of.

The small round stone and the cross marking Leon’s grave find their place at the very bottom of the paper.

He idly wonders if it would be ok to ask Amber to carve something on the cross. 

Maybe not.

"She could carve a flower. Or a bone. Or your favorite toy", he explains to Leon's cross. "She's good with that kind of stuff. It would be like ancient Egyptians giving gifts to their kings to keep them entertained in the afterlife." He erases a leaf that looks too stiff. "They were mostly cat people though, the Egyptians. I don't think you'd be too thrilled with a cat carving on your grave, would you?"

A lone leaf drifts down and lands on top of the cross.

“She could carve you a name plate. She’s quite good with those. She made one for Hands that says ‘Chief Robotics Engineer’ with all these steampunk-y clockwork things on it. Hands is another one of my friends,” he pauses on the word. Friends. They are his friends.

“Then there’s Starling. Not entirely sure about her, but she’s sort of decided to be my friend and I don’t think I have a lot of say in the matter. She’s a great singer. Like, really good. She could be on American Idol or something but she doesn’t want to. She thinks pop is superficial and true artists should strive to tell important stories with their music. Like painting with words, she said.”

He adds shading on the side of the trunk.

“I like traditional painting myself. Even though Hands made fun of me for calling orange yellow this morning.” 

Hands had asked him if he’d ever been tested for color blindness and to which Amber had cordially decreed that everyone saw colors in their own unique way and that there was nothing wrong with being different.

“I could paint you too, if you don’t mind my weird color vision. I like painting dogs. I just need to find out what color you were”, he tells the cross. “Uncle Verity must have pictures… Light brown, probably, most blood-hounds are.”

“Brown and black. Saddle-marked, I think he called it.”

The woman moves very slowly, which isn’t a wonder considering half her body is bandaged up. She’s wearing a dark green night-robe with some sort of a loose blue kaftan underneath. Her dark curls are escaping the lopsided bun and sticking to her white neck brace. She’s holding one pink-slippered foot up like a stork when she stands, swaying ever so slightly in spite of the cane she’s leaning on with her cast-free arm. There’s a small wicker basket hanging from the handle of the cane.

Fitz instinctively jumps up from his chair, intending to offer it to the woman, but staring down into her brown eyes surrounded by dark purple bruising makes him suddenly unable to speak

She's short, barely to his shoulder, and the pain she’s in is so obvious in her awkward posture.

She looks a lot younger than Fitz's mom.

“Can I see your drawing?”

Still stunned to silence, Fitz hands her the sketchbook. Then ,flushing as he realizes she has no hand free to take it from him, opens it to show her his silly doodle.

“No one in this family can draw to save their life”, she says fondly, brushing the paper with the tip of her fingers barely visible from the huge white cast. “You can. I suppose you get that from your mother, then.”

“Grandma”, Fitz says, and instantly regrets it. If he had any doubts of the woman’s identity the tears he can see in her eyes before she looks away from him leave him with none. His father’s widow sniffs like a little child, lets go of her cane to wipe her eyes with her good hand and then lets out a pathetic broken cry when it falls to the ground. Fitz's heart aches for her, and that makes him feel like he’s betraying his mom. He kneels to pick up the walking stick, and stays down a moment longer than he needs to to get his feelings back under control.

“Thank you”, Patience Farseer whispers as Fitz helps the cane back under her arm. “Walk with me a little, would you? I’d like to show you my garden.”

“Should you be walking? You can have my chair-”

“Yes, I should”, she almost snaps. “I have been lying down doing nothing but thinking since-” She takes a deep breath, “for far longer than I can stand.”

"At least let me carry the basket."

"Well, if you insist."

The set out at snail-pace. At first she only grumbles about hospital food, hospital clothes and hospital smell in her hair. 

“And this one was a posh, private one. Still awful. Full of machines beeping and people crying.”

“I was in the hospital once”, he remembers, “I tripped on this wet cliff and broke my arm.”

"Oh did you? How old were you?"

"Eight I think." He waves his basket-free arm, "good as new now."

She comes to a halt in front of a row of apple trees, with quite a few ripe red fruits visible among the leaves.

“Oh, what a perfect timing”, she exclaims, sounding almost like a little girl. Fitz suspects she would jump up and down and clap her hands if she could.

She makes her rickety way to the nearest tree. Her cane falls again as she reaches to run her fingers around the smooth round cheek of a particularly big apple.

"It's hard, I can't pretend it isn't. You look so much like him."

"So I've been told," Fitz mumbles. He's beginning to really hate hearing it. "Sorry."

"Oh no, please don't say that. It's not your fault, none of this is your fault. But that doesn't change the fact that it's difficult." 

She twists the perfectly red fruit off the branch and offers it to him like a token of peace. Her smile is very warm and her brown eyes are dappled with green. "I'm going to try my best to be honest with you, can you do the same for me?"

He takes the apple. "Yes."

"Good. Thank you. The last thing we need in this house is more dishonesty."

He can't help but smile too. 

"You're not wrong."

She picks another apple and crouches, slowly like an old granny, to put it in her basket.

"I know I'm slow", she says, even though he hasn't made a sound, "but I want to do this. I have to do something. To prove I'm still here."

Her words are like cold fingers running up his neck. 

For some reason he thinks of Amber and her weird fortune teller dreams. If she knew of his arrival, did she also know that his father was going to die?

Fitz shudders.

She smiles, then, but it's so forced it looks more like a grimace of pain.

"But enough about me", she says, a tad shrilly, "tell me about yourself. You're artistic, what else do you do? Music? Do you play anything? Or maybe cooking?"

It's so abrupt he's lost for words.

"Your father liked to cook. He used to cook for me, in the middle of the night sometimes. The chef was so annoyed with the mess."

"I… don't know. I can make noodles."

"Maybe you could learn!"

"I…."

"What about sports? Skiing? Basketball? Oh, maybe  _ poetry _ !"

"I'm sorry. I don't think I'm that good at anything, really..."

"Oh, but there must be something", she interrupts him. Her tone is bordering on manic, she's listing things like she's taking inventory of a messy attic or something, not knowing what she's looking for but determined to find it.

"Have you ever tried acting? The theatrical arts program at the academy is very good…"

She probably doesn’t mean it that way, but it sounds like she’s warning him not to defile his father’s memory by his incompetence at everything, like Fitz has to be good at something to be worthy of having his father's face.

"I'm not good at anything", he finally snaps". "I know my father was amazing at everything but I'm not. I didn't know him and I know I look like him but I'm  _ not him _ !"

He didn't mean to raise his voice. It just came out, every unexplained expectation laid on him in the last few days, every odd look, every mention of how much he looks like a man he didn't know that happened to meet his mother eighteen years ago… He screws his eyes shut, forces his lungs to calm down and steady his gasping breath.

Patience is still and silent as a mouse. 

When he finally dares to open his eyes and look at her again, he wishes he hadn't.

She has her good hand over her mouth, blackened eyes brimming with tears. 

The guilt is so strong he feels physically ill. Like he hurt a puppy 

"Sorry", he mumbles. "I didn't mean it. I'm just… it's been so weird. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, I've already forgiven you."

"I do like poetry", he offers, feeling silly, "if you have any favorites I'd like to read them."

Her eyes are wet again.

"I'm sure I can find you a book or two." She rubs her shoulder. "Evidently I'm not quite well enough for gardening yet. Help me walk a bit more, would you?"

He picks up the basket, now containing three red apples and slides her cane under the handle before offering her his free arm.  He can tell she's tired because she makes no objection when he steers their course towards the house again. She's leaning more of her weight on him now, but she's so tiny it's barely even noticeable. Her limp has gotten a little more pronounced.  She reminds him of Burrich a little, the way her determination seems to be the only thing still keeping the bad leg moving.

"Our room is on the top floor", she tells him when they're inside, standing at the foot of the southern sitting room staircase. "I chose that room. Chivalry told me I would get tired of running up and down the stairs, but I insisted. It took ten men to move the bed from his room on the second floor up to our new room."

Her hand on his arm is trembling a little.

“Well,” she sets her foot on the first step, “waiting isn’t going to make it any easier.”

Climbing all the way up takes what feel like hours to Fitz. Patience’s lips are very pale and she’s breathing is small, gasping coughs and he’s terrified she’s going to pass out and roll back down the stairs.

When they finally make it, she’s no longer talking at all, and she’s trembling so badly she drops her keys twice while trying to open the door. The second time he picks them up from the floor she allows him to insert the large brass key into the lock and turn it until it clicks.

“There”, he says as he turns the handle and pulls the door open for her, once again kneeling to get her cane settled properly under her arm. He places the keys in the basket with the apples and holds it out to her. When she makes no move to take it, he looks around for a table, and finding none, sets it very gently down on the floor. Patience is still staring at the spot where it was hanging from the crook of his arm. Her eyes are very wide.

He doesn't know if he should say something and is just about to half-ass a cowardly plan to run away when she draws a long, shuddering breath.

"I don't know if anyone's told you," she says in a small, hoarse voice, "but I was the one driving."

Fitz's mouth feels dry.

He's ashamed of the overwhelming relief he feels when she turns and disappears into the room without another word, closing the door behind her.

The basket is left there, on the floor. 

*

Regal yawns. 

Chade frowns at him but keeps on yammering on about preparational college courses or something else mind-numbingly boring. Beginning of term is always exhausting because the teachers are all filled with either hope or dread for the students, abruptly remembering to get worried about their future and how their choices might reflect on the school.

“You can’t just rest on your last name, you know?”

“Why not? You do. And it’s not even your last name really is it?”

“Would it kill you to think of me as a teacher for once?”

“It just might. Dad would be really mad at you if that happened.” 

Chase takes a deep breath, fights to keep his face neutral and benevolent like befits a professional educator.

Sad.

"It would greatly benefit you in the future. Your father wants you to do it, you know that."

"Dad wants a lot of things from me, most of them he's never going to get. I thought that was supposed to be the one good thing about being the youngest child, no one expects shit from you."

"Well, for yourself then", Chade pulls the thin brush out of his pipe and knocks the bowl gently against the table. Tiny black crumbs fall out. Regal wonders if he could get away with smoking at school if he had a fancy pipe like that. He types 'fancy pipe' on google on his phone.

"Why are you so against improving skills that will be useful in the future."

“Because it’s pointless," Regal doesn't even bother looking up from his phone. Oh, there's a pipe made of 14 karat gold, price on request. That's always a good sign. He saves the link before continuing, "Why do I need to know any of that when I can pay others to know that shit for me?" 

Chade shakes his head but his smile is warm, almost proud. Stupid old man, Regal thinks and smiles back, as sweetly as he possibly can. He's long suspected Chade has a thing for his mother and tilting his head like she does makes his uncle look at him in that 'I wish you were my son' -way.

It's easy to smile. He got the headmaster of the school to come meet him at the group study room he's repurposed into a private lounge instead of having to go to his office. 

Excessive signs of favoritism can encourage antisocial behavior and undermine the parent or other primary care taker's authority or something like that. He remembers reading that in one of the pamphlets Chiv brought home to mom after a horrible bitch of a teacher had written a concern report about Regal in third grade. Mom had slapped Chiv for that. Joke was on him, he was dead and the crisis counselor Regal had been forced to see after the accident said he was 'dealing very well'. Besides, he  _ likes  _ excessive signs of favoritism. They're one of his favorite things in the world. Seems idiotic not to use everything he can to his advantage.

One of Regal's other favorite things in the world is getting people to do things that go completely against their nature. Like make Chade act over-emotional and Will irrational. They don't do it for anyone but him. Because whether they like or even admit it or not, Regal is the most important person in their lives.

He likes that.

He hooks his toes behind Will's ankle under the low table and thoroughly enjoys the way it makes the other boy twitch. Will's eyes never leave the paper but Regal can see the corner of his mouth curve. 

Chade has Will taking some quiz, probably to test his IQ. Normally Will answers wrong on purpose to avoid extra work and whatever but this one has those silly graphs he likes because he's weird like that. Regal knows Chade did it on purpose and he suspects Will knows it too but since he has a weird thing for analytical geometry he's playing along. He has that funny expression on his face, stupid half smile and eyes all glassy.

Hah, glassy.

It’s kind of unfair, the whole fucked up eye thing. He’d be so pretty without it. Well, maybe not without it. Regal’s seen him without it and it’s the grossest thing ever. 

There's a loud clang followed by an annoyed shout. 

Regal turns just in time to see Justin duck out of the way as Carrod jumps up to try and smack Burl on the head for whatever he just did. 

Most likely something to do with the puddle of coffee slowly spreading on the floor in front of the couch they're sitting on.

"Calm down, it was an accident!"

"That was from that new place on Park! You owe me 6 dollars plus taxi fare you asshole!"

"You took a cab over to Park for coffee?"

"He goes there because of that girl."

"Shut up, Serene! I like their coffee!"

"That's just sad, dude. What do you do, sit there staring at her while she tries to work?"

"No!"

"She goes to work every morning, hoping against hope that maybe today the weirdo won't show up but no, there he is again. Staring."

"I'm a loyal customer, there's nothing wrong with that."

"...wishing she had the courage to get a restraining order.."

"Shut up!"

"I bet that's what he puts on his Tinder profile", Serene laughs, "'Your next restraining order waiting to happen'."

Chade actually chuckles at that, then re-organizes his face with some obvious difficulties before chiding Serene: "You shouldn't joke about serious matters like that."

"I wish I was joking, sir."

"I don't even have Tinder", Carrod whines.  Bad mistake. Regal doesn't need to see Burl's face to know he's delighted with this information.

Serene is not far behind: "We can help you with that!"

“Like hell you can!" Carrod protests but Burl is faster. 

"Grab his phone, Justin!"

"Fuck you, Burl! Justin don't you dare!"

"Language", Chade says, not sounding interested at all. 

"Why do you have a picture of yourself in nothing but your mom's jewelry?"

"It's not-"

"You look like a pimp from the 80's."

"Let me see!"

"Ok, how's this: 'aspiring male stripper, 21, looking for an open-minded gilf to teach him new tricks'?"

Burl has no problems holding Carrod at bay with his left arm and still keeping the phone out of Serene's reach. Justin laying half on top of her probably doesn't help.

"You: All claws, no shame

Me: Anxiously awaiting to get punished."

"My turn, Burl, give it here!"

"Fine then", Carrod sighs, changing tactics. "I guess it's only understandable that you'd feel jealous of my success with women."

"Dude, jealous? After what happened last time? Did you guys even hear about this? The girl shows up, which I guess is a step in the right direction, but then she asks the waiter if anyone's there for a blind date. Gets pointed to our man Carrod here. So what does she do? Fucking tips the waiter and leaves."

"That is not what happened!"

"That is  _ exactly _ what happened", Serene interjects, "Merry's sister's friend works at that place and she told me!"

"Yeah I'm going to put 'humiliation kink' in here."

"Hey, fuck you man!"

"'likes: getting... spanked, and… called… a loser..."

Why is everyone Regal knows so fucking weird? He needs to find new friends that don't make him want to pull out his own hair. Because that would be an international catastrophe.

"You shouldn't lie on the internet, kids", Chade says, not looking up from his pipe.

"Oh so it's "don't do as I do, do as I say" then is it?" Regal laughs, "That poor woman, thought she was meeting a fresh-faced 45-year-old and then you showed up instead." 

"You really need to learn to respect your elders."

"Nah." He saves a few more cool-looking pipes, "but you know what I could do? Fix  _ your _ tinder profile. Like properly fix it."

Chade rolls his eyes.

"What! I'm really good! I even got  _ Verity _ a date."

"I'm sure he was very grateful."

"He wasn't. He's impolite like that."

"Uhh", someone says from the doorway. 

"Ah, hello Fitz", Uncle Chade turns to the door and smiles.

Regal looks up and has to blink a few times to make sure he's really seeing what he thinks he is. The absolute nerve of this motherfucker. How fucking  _ dare  _ he?

"What did I say about talking to me like you know me? This is a public place."

Fitz sighs. "Believe it or not I'm not here to talk to you. I'm here to see Justin. We were assigned a history project."

Justin is understandably not happy. He gets up with a groan and starts to haul his books and papers into a pile with entirely too much force.

"See?" he shakes a triangle ruler at Serene, "This is what happens when you cut class without telling me!"

"Oh my god I was at the dentist!"

"Can you two stop being compulsively siamese for like five minutes", Burl starts but a quiet "Done" cuts him off. Will sets down his pencil and hands the papers he was filling out to Chade.

"Done?" the old man looks incredulous, "you have almost one third of the assigned time left."

Will shrugs. "I'm done."

"Case in point," Regal points out smugly. 

"Oh shut up," Chade snaps at him, and snatches the paper from Will's hand. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and starts reading. He looks up once, not at Will but to glare at Regal. Regal grins at him.

Then an annoying shuffling noise reminds him of the unfortunate presence of the biggest pain in the ass in his life.

"Why are you still here?" Regal demands.

Fitz looks like he forgot how his face works.  Is that normal for a human? Maybe his mom dropped him a few times. Or threw him at a wall.

"Regal", Uncle Chade says in the exact same tone that dad uses. The one that means they want to sound threatening and wish they had the guts to back it up. Regal finds it equal parts annoying and adorable that they bother. What are you going to do, old man? he thinks. Kick me out of the school I own? You have nothing on me. Nothing. And you know it as well as I do.

"I was just asking, god", he says out loud, "he looks enough like a loser without the whole 'standing in the corner, staring' -thing."

Something in Fitz’s expression changes, fleetingly but significantly. Regal knows that face. Anger. He has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Good. He had thought Fitz was too dumb to rile up and is very glad to find that he was wrong.  All it would take was a little push and the bastard would lose it and do something stupid and get himself ejected the hell out of Regal’s life.  Watching Fitz go from angry to suspicious to uncomfortable to actually no longer meeting his eyes only makes Regal smile wider. That’s right idiot, you  _ should _ be scared, he thinks and slides his hand between the couch and the back of Will’s knee. 

You don’t even know how scared.

  
  


*

Justin is by far the weirdest of Regal's friends. His odd emo goth aesthetic doesn't exactly match Regal's instagrammable luxury life. Justin has bad posture, lank hair dyed black and purple, and a single ordinary safety pin on the lapel of his uniform jacket. It's the saddest attempt at punk Fitz has ever seen. It also makes him feel a lot less hostile towards Justin, it's hard not to pity the kid a little.

"Why are you friends with my uncle?" Fitz asks him. Justin looks uncomfortable.

"He doesn't like you calling him that."

"What?"

"Regal doesn't like to be called uncle."

"Well, I don't like to be called a bastard either so I guess we're even." 

Staring Justin down is like kicking a man with crutches. The kid seems to be afraid of his own shadow. He's an idiot but Fitz cannot help feeling bad for him. The way he talks about Regal makes him sound less like a friend and more like just another lackey.

He smiles in what he hopes is a disarming way.

"Justin, listen to me. Whatever Regal said-"

"I don't want to be friends with you!" Justin snaps. His cheeks are very pink. "We're working together on a history project, that's all. You weren't my first choice. In fact I would rather be doing this with anyone but you. We can talk about the project but nothing else. Get that through your head sooner rather than later, please."

"Fine!"

"Good!"

"FitzChivalry!" 

Hearing his full name in such an odd setting makes him jump. When he turns towards the sound, he can immediately tell the caller from the crowd. She’s tall and walks very proudly with her shoulders back and chin high. When she gets closer Fitz realises she’s carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows on a leather harness on her back, as is the other girl beside her. They’ve both braided their hair in thick braids, and together with their unusual accessories and almost royal bearing it makes the two girls look like elf warriors fresh out of some fantasy book.

“FitzChivalry”, the taller girl repeats as she steps to stand in front of him. “My name is Kettricken. I have been looking for you.”

He doesn’t know what to do so he gives a silly little wave. She catches his flailing hand and shakes it.

"I'm so glad to meet you."

"Uhh."

"I tried asking Regal… your.. who is he exactly?"

"My uncle", Fitz says, finally gathering his wits. He flashes her a wide smile and turns his head just enough to include Justin, "but I wouldn't bother with him if I were you. You're not exactly his type."

Kettricken frowns, then shakes her head, as if shaking off whatever was confusing her like an annoying gnat.

"He said you were his servant or something? We don't really use house servants anymore so I found that a bit weird." Justin snickers at that. "But it's not him I wish to know about."

She still hasn't let go of his hand. The whole situation feels very official and dignified, like he’s a medieval knight greeted by a lady or something.

"Your uncle. Your other uncle. The one who was speaking at the local business showcase last month."

"Ah, that was probably Verity.” 

"Yes!" she exclaims, blue eyes shining. She's now holding his hand in both of hers. "Such an intelligent man! I really wanted to talk to him afterwards but he slipped away so quickly. Do you suppose there’s a way I could meet him? I would really like to ask him about the focus group idea he wanted to try? I know my father would appreciate it, and he…. Verity" she pauses as if to feel the name on her tongue, "he seemed so very passionate about it."

“Uhh. I guess? He’s pretty busy right now but at some point…”

“Wonderful!” She squeezes his hand before letting it go. “Thank you.”

She turns to go but smiles at him over her shoulder. 

“I hope to talk to you again soon, FitzChivalry. It was nice to finally meet you.”

“You too”, Fitz says and barely manages to not add ‘my lady’. Kettricken nods to her friend and they stride off.

“Where is she from, Middle-Earth?” Fitz wonders out loud.

“I think she’s from Sweden”, Justin says almost wistfully, then scowls at Fitz. “We’re still not friends!”

Fitz gives a resigned sigh. “Fine. Let’s just go to the library.”

“But we won’t talk.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We won’t.”

“Ok.”

Justin pushes his hair out of his eyes, then smooths it back down.

“She speaks really good English.”

“Who?”

“Kettricken.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Don’t they have a language in Sweden? One that’s not English I mean.”

“I’m pretty sure they speak Swedish in Sweden.”

“Right.”

Fitz pushes the right-side one of the heavy main doors open and holds it for Justin.

They don’t speak a word of the history project during the walk to the library.

*

Friday afternoon Fitz’s is exhausted but reluctant to go home. The funeral being only one night away, the preparations have become almost manic. He’s in no hurry to get back to the big house full of cleaners, gardeners, chefs, strangers carrying flowers and chairs, and family members looking at him with either sadness or anger or some combination of both. Regal has gone ahead to wherever he spends his Fridays leaving Fitz to call for his own ride. 

“So I can stay. I want to stay.” He brushes the assorted nails and other bits of debris to the side and hops on to sit on the unused worktop behind Amber’s desk. 

“Ok, then. If you don’t mind getting sawdust all over your clothes”, Amber warns him as she turns the piece of light wood on her lap. “A bit of company is nice.”

“A bit of sawdust is nice too. I hate being so neat all the time.”

“You don’t have to be. I mean, you can roll your sleeves and leave the vest in your locker. They’re not actually enforcing those rules you know.” Amber herself has her shirt sleeves pushed up to her elbows and isn’t wearing her tie. She’s even rolled up her trouser legs to show off her ridiculous rainbow socks. 

“That might be true for you but not for me”, Fitz says morosely. “If I have one hair out of place I’m a disgrace to the family.” He tries to balance a screw to stand on its rounded head but to no avail.

“The way you say ‘family’ makes you guys sound like the mafia or something.”

“I wish!” he chuckles. “We’re just pompous and traditional. I’ve only been a Farseer a week and I’ve already been warned four times by four different people against dishonoring the family. It’s like they’re all convinced I’m going to.” He scratches at an ancient hole in the wooden countertop, then says out loud what he’s been trying not to think all week: “Because I was born a disgrace to the family.”

She’s silent for a long while, scraping away at the block. A slim leg emerges from where the grain curves around a knot, slim ankle, rounded calf, knobby knee. Then she puts her little knife down and blows away the dust, before straightening her back and pushing her hair out of her face.

“Most people can only measure and judge others based on their own experiences. That’s especially true for people who can afford to not care how others feel.” She turns to look straight at him. Her eyes look bright gold in the low late afternoon sunlight. “I think you’ve shaken them to their core. And I think your presence is incredibly good for the family, if they truly are how you say they are. You can choose to become like them, or you can choose to become something else. Regardless of what you choose, they all have a lot to learn from you.”

Again there’s that odd arresting feeling of suddenly being outside of time. He can’t look away from her eyes, and the shadow of a bird flying past the window makes a shiver run up his spine.

Then she turns back to her work, releasing him.

“That’s what I think, anyway.”

“I think you’re right. Now I just need to figure out when to fight the current and when to float along.”

“I think so too.”

She goes back to her scraping.

He watches her, chewing on his fingernail. 

There’s a fine cloud of dust hovering around her, glimmering in the yellow light. 

"Could you help me braid my hair?"

She doesn’t look up. "I could, but couldn’t you just go to a professional? Or have one come to your house. You probably have an in-house stylist or twelve."

He cringes at the thought. “That’s… really not my thing. Besides, I’m pretty sure Regal’s bribed them to shave me bald if I ever dared to request their services.”

“I’m sorry. It doesn’t sound fun at all, having to live with him.”

“It’s not. Good thing the house is so big.” He shakes his head, she laughs.

“So, why braids? I think your hair looks good like that. Makes you look a little less like your dad.”

He sighs. “I think that’s exactly the point. It’s my dad’s wife. She wants me to braid it."

“Ah. But do you?”

“What?”

“Want it braided? Do you want to look like a clone of his? Is this a point where you fight or a point where you float?”

“I... don’t know.” His first instinct is to say no. But she’s made him think. Maybe reminding people who his father is would make them slightly less happy to jump to Regal’s side against him.

“I don’t think you shouldn’t do anything until you figure it out. Especially not for anyone else.”

Easy for you to say, Fitz thinks. You haven’t met Patience.

“Of course”, Amber continues and gently brushes sawdust from the tiny fairy’s face, “What do I know. I don’t know her. But I’m just saying, that maybe, regardless of what she thinks, having you walking around looking exactly like your dad wouldn’t necessarily be the best thing for anyone.”

He bites his lip. She’s right again, of course, but that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t know how to say no to Patience. Besides Verity, she’s his only ally in the house. 

He watches as she shaves off a paper thin sliver of wood from the fairy girl’s long ponytail. He frowns and shifts closer to get a better look.

“Amber?”

“Hmmh?”

“What are they doing?”

A dainty shrug.

“Playing tennis.”

“That is  _ not _ tennis.”

“Yes it is. Look. She has a tennis racket.” She points at the carving. “Right there!”

She tilts her head, brows knitting. “Although it does kind of look more like a badminton racket. I don’t really know a lot about sports.”

“Well, that much is obvious! People generally wear clothes when they play tennis, for a start,” he laughs.

“Hey! It’s an artistic impression!” 

He wipes his eyes. “You are so…”

“What?”

“I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, and looks down at her carving. Fitz can see a smile before her golden hair falls to hide it.

He can't help but smile too. It’s a nice thing to realize, that he no longer feels lonely.

_ Turn around _

_ Look at what you see _

_ In her face _

_ The mirror of your dreams _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack:
> 
> Go or Go Ahead by Rufus Wainwright  
> Never Ending Story by Limahl


	4. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two women talk about flowers over some fine wine.

_ A candle casting a faint glow _

_ You and I see eye to eye _

_ Can you hear the thunder? _

_ Can you hear the thunder that's breaking? _

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt…"

Desire looks up, sighs, and gestures her over with a lazy wave. Patience shuffles closer, still awkward and stiff with bandages.

"I have just sat through a one hour and forty five minute presentation on flower arrangements. Did you know that there are over two hundred flowers that bloom in Farseer blue?"

"Two hundred?"

"Well, something like that", Desire finishes whatever was in her glass, "and I was introduced to every single one of them today. So believe you me, you're actually a welcome change. Sit down."

She picks up the tiny silver bell from the table and gives it a quick ring. Before Patience has even managed to lower herself into an armchair, a door in the corner of the room opens.

"More wine", Desire orders. "And bring a glass for Lady Patience as well."

She smiles, this one almost reaching her icy blue eyes.

"You look like shit."

"I know."

Desire reaches two long, black nails inside her cleavage and pulls out a beautiful black and gold pillbox. She pops it open and offers it to Patience.

"On me."

"Thanks, but I.. uhh. I got my own."

"Oh, right. What did you get? Oxy?"

"Just ibuprofen."

"Ah, shame."

Jason enters with a small silver tray in his white-gloved hands. He unloads the contents, two crystal glasses and a matching canter of pale gold wine, and backs silently out of the room.

“It’s white, I hope you don’t mind. I’m trying to stay awake past 4pm.”

She fills the delicate glasses almost to the brim, offers one to Patience, then clinks her own against it.

“To fucking Farseers.”

Patience’s hand flies to cover the snort of laughter and to her horror she feels tears burning her eyes. Shouldn’t she be all cried out by now? The thought makes her laugh even harder. Desire takes the glass from her shaking hand, probably less out of kindness than wishing to avoid a waste of good wine, but Patience is grateful all the same. She gingerly rubs her upper back under the neck brace. Both laughing and crying hurt.

“Thank you”, she sighs, accepting the glass back and taking a large gulp. “This is very good.” 

“Of course it is.”

For a while they sit and drink in silence, interrupted only by Patience’s occasional sniff. 

“So”, she starts after she can finally be sure she won’t break down crying again, “what flowers did you settle on?”

A small mirthless chuckle. “Do you honestly care? I know this isn’t the kind of funeral you would have wanted for him.”

Patience shakes her head, cringes with pain and has to smile at her own silliness. 

“No, I guess it isn't. I wish I could say I knew what he would have wanted. But we never…” she takes a deep, shuddering breath, “We never discussed it.”

“No,  _ he  _ never discussed it with  _ you. _ Because he knew how it is. He grew up a Farseer. Sadness is never a private affair in this family. It’s a public performance.” Desire frowns at her glass. “It’s back-handed condolences, business dinners in black, whispers behind your back at church. It’s mountains of tacky “I’m sorry you lost your baby -bouquets from half-strangers delivered to the hospital you signed in under a false name.” She gives Patience a wry smile. “But you knew that, of course.”

Patience doesn’t know what to say. ‘I know’ feels redundant. They both know. They both carry a scar on their hearts for each little life lost.

She takes a sip of her wine.

“Delphiniums”, Desire says, staring past Patience into nothingness. “I chose delphiniums.”

  
  


_ Carry your dreams down into the grave _

_ Every heart, like every soul, equal to break _

_ It's alive, can you feel it  _

_ Taking hold again? _

_ In your mind, all your demons are rattling chains _

_ Welcome to a world of pain _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack
> 
> Cirice by Ghost  
> The Void by Parkway Drive


End file.
